


In Loving Memory

by TeaGirrl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Accidents, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drama, F/M, Love, Marriage, Married Couple, Memories, Memory Loss, Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:43:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaGirrl/pseuds/TeaGirrl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a hit-and-run, Belle loses all her memories of her and Rum's happy marriage and the time they have spent together. Rum is now faced with the reality of being in love with someone who doesn't even know who he is. Inspired by "The Vow."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moments of Impact

**Author's Note:**

> This story will have a few jumps in time, but these will be written in Italics and past-tense. And the next chapters will be longer than this one. This was just to get the story in motion :-)
> 
> Hope you enjoy this brand new story! And have a great day!

They walk beneath the glow of the streetlights and the light of the distant stars overhead. Their hands are entwined, each bearing a gold band on their ring finger; a symbol of the eternity they promised each other a few years ago.

They are wrapped in coats and scarves. It is early September and already autumn is approaching, its cold air trying to force its way through their many layers of clothing. She has taken off her left glove, and he his right, so their fingers can lace together.

Belle swings their joined hands gently back and forth, laughing as a playful gust of cold wind tries to rid her of her beret. Rum smiles down at her lovingly, her carefree laugh still making his heart swell.

She notices he's watching her and turns to meet his gaze.

"What?" she asks, her bubbly laugh trying to penetrate her smile.

"Was just reminded of why I fell in love with you, is all," he says, leaning in for a kiss.

She quickly closes the distance between them to press a chaste kiss to his lips, before letting go of his hand. She skips ahead before turning to look at him, still walking away from him.

"You've gone soft, Rum," she teases, "Wouldn't have pegged you for such a romantic."

He grins at her, quickening his pace to catch up to her. He manages to grab her arm and pulls her flush against him, wrapping his other arms around her waist, not letting her escape. He leans in, their noses touching, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

"I can assure you, dearie, right now I am the very opposite of soft," he whispers against her lips.

She catches the innuendo immediately – he always did love that about her – and catches his bottom lip between her teeth, eliciting a soft groan from him. He lets go of her arm and lets his fingers travel the nape of her neck. He grabs a handful of her chestnut curls and tugs gently, forcing her to dip back. She grabs his coat for support as the arm around her waist keeps her pressed against him.

"I really shouldn't give up this easily," she says between kisses.

He nods. "Yes. Any woman with a scrap of dignity would've at least tried to resist." He still doesn't let her go. Instead he lets his tongue trail along her bottom lip, asking for admittance.

But before their tongues entwine, she pulls back and steps out of his embrace. But she doesn't really mean it. He can see it in her eyes, how the dazzling blue now seems to be on fire – all because of him.

"A real man doesn't say no to a little chase," she says, smirking. She curls her index finger, beckoning him to follow her. He returns her smirk and suddenly charges after her down the sidewalk. She half screams, half laughs as he comes running towards her and she sets off in the opposite direction, smiling as she looks over her shoulder at him.

She holds her beret with one hand as she playfully leaps off the sidewalk into the middle of the deserted road. He stands on the edge of the sidewalk, watching her as she walks along the white line in the middle of the road, her arms stretched out, steadying her.

"A real man isn't afraid of taking a little walk on the wild side," she teases, watching her feet as they follow the white line.

He laughs. "A proper lady knows the street is no place to be this late at night," he retorts, the tips of his shoes dangling off the sidewalk.

She looks at him and raises an eyebrow.

"Who on Earth said I was a 'proper lady'?"

She spins around with her arms still outstretched and doesn't stop until it's too late, until she's too disoriented to act.

A pair of headlights come skidding around the corner. Rum hears the sound of tires screeching against tarmac and watches in horror as the lights speed towards Belle. And they don't appear to be slowing down.

He shouts her name and starts towards her, getting ready to reach out and pull her away from the approaching danger, into his arms where she will always be safe.

But he's too late.

She stumbles from her recent spinning and barely manages to shield her eyes against the blinding lights, before the engineered pile of metal crashes into her.

And he sees it all; as if time has slowed to allow him witness the person he loves the most die.

The car crashes into her legs, sending her flying over the hood, her head crashing against the windshield. He sees how her skull breaks the glass and how her body is pushed over the roof of the car, only to slide off and fall to the pavement.

He sees Belle now lying in a crumpled heap on the ground, her left arm bent at an impossible angle, her face filled with cuts. He rushes to her side and cradles her head. He stares in horror at the dark blood now coating his fingertips.

The car never slows. He sees it speed down the road and turn a corner. He wants to run after it, to kill whoever did this to his Belle. But he cannot leave her.

"Help!" he cries over and over, his voice cracking with the effort. He doesn't notice he's crying until the cold, ruthless wind chills his tear-soaked cheeks. He sees a figure running across the road towards them.

As he gets closer, he recognizes his dark hair and eyes. Jefferson.

He is already on the phone, calling someone who can save her, someone who can prevent her from leaving him for good tonight.


	2. Bookmarks and Eloquent Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just reminding that this is a flashback, hence the past-tense and Italics.

_He sauntered through the double-doors towards the reception desk, where he knew she'd be sitting. He was carrying a heavy volume about fossils in South America under his arm, which he had pulled from a shelf without a second glance two months ago, just so he wouldn't leave empty-handed._

_She had called him yesterday evening, telling him that he had extended his loan by nearly a month, and that he had to return the book or pay a fine. He had drawn out the conversation, insisting that she stay on the phone while he pretended to rummage around his house for the book. He had known exactly where it was - it had been carelessly placed on the small table in the hall from the day he borrowed it – but he still dissected his many bookshelves, making sure she heard the grunts of his placing piles of heavy books on the floor. He had even run up the stairs and walked around, just to keep her on the phone for a little longer._

_So here he was, returning a book that had been nothing more than an excuse to see her again._

_She had her back turned to him as she sorted through the stacks of reserved books behind the desk. He smacked the book down on the desk between them, making the pretty librarian jump and spin around to face him._

_The furrow between her brows softened at the sight of him and she wandered up to him, tucking one the tendrils that had fallen out of her up-do behind her ear._

_"Good morning," he greeted, watching as her delicate fingers plucked the book off the counter, before scanning its return into the library's only computer._

_"Good morning," she returned. "I trust you are now an expert on fossils, considering you must've been reading it_  non-stop  _during the two months you had it?" she said, placing the heavy book on one of the trolleys._

_This wasn't something he did very often. He only did it when he missed the sound of her voice, when he wanted to give her an excuse to call him. A small part of him liked to think that she actually knew his number by heart._

_"Oh yes," he said, catching her playful tone, "It was a real page-turner."_

_She chuckled. "I'm sure it was."_

_She looked up at him, and he let himself be consumed by her radiant blue eyes for a few moments, before he excused himself and headed towards the chair in the far corner of the room that he always occupied. It provided a good view of her desk, while creating a safe distance between them._

_He took off his coat and hung it over the back of the chair, and wandered towards one of the many bookshelves. He let his fingertips skim over the many spines as he searched for something he would find mildly interesting. He never chose anything that would consume him completely. He didn't come here for the literature._

_He chose a handful of books, stacking them in his hands as he made his way back to his self-claimed reading corner. He put the books on the floor by his feet and chose one at random, letting himself get comfortable. He knew he was going to be here a while._

_The library was usually deserted, especially in the evening. Now it was just the two of them. The silence enveloped them both. Her fingers grazing paper as she turned a page of the book she was reading and his steady breaths as he watched her were the only sounds present. He could almost fool himself into thinking the outside world didn't exist._

_He couldn't remember when he had started this pathetic routine; when he had started spending hours in a library pretending to read just so he could see her. Maybe it had happened gradually, and when he'd finally realized what he was doing it was too late._

_But he remembered the first time he saw her._

_He had come to collect rent, and was greeted by a young, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked beauty. He remembered how she had smiled at him, and how he had stuttered that the rent could wait, that it was really no hurry._

_Her face had invaded his dreams that night, and he had showed up at the library the next day in a desperate attempt to silence his need to see her one more time, to hear her cheerful voice again._

_"Back so soon?" she'd asked, taking a sip of tea as she'd leaned on the desk in front of her, her elbows supporting her._

_He'd smiled wistfully at her. "I'm not here for rent," he'd assured her._

_She'd raised her eyebrows, silently asking what the hell he was doing there._

_"I'm looking for a book," he'd said, slightly flustered for reasons he would never fully understand._

_She'd smirked. "Well, you've come to the right place. Which one did you have in mind?"_

_He'd had no idea. His mind went blank. He hadn't been able to remember titles of famous books, or books he'd read before. So he'd said the first thing that came to mind, unconsciously leaning towards her, his voice lowering slightly. "A good one."_

_She'd laughed at this, and had pulled back to take one more sip of her tea before heading towards the shelves, gesturing for him to follow her. He'd watched how her fingers had delicately traced the spines as she'd made her way down several aisles. She touched books as if they were priceless works of art, and he couldn't help but be mesmerised._

_After following her in silence for about ten minutes, she had picked out at least a dozen books. She'd carried them with ease and he remembered how he'd faltered as she dropped the stack of books into his arms._

_"These are some of my favourites," she'd said._

_"I'll take them all."_

_She'd beamed at him, as she'd mistaken him for an avid reader. She'd offered to carry some of the books back to the desk, where she'd scanned them in one by one. He'd even bought a library card. She hadn't believed him when he had said his name was 'Rumpelstiltskin', and he'd had to show her his driver's licence as proof._

_She'd put all the books into bags for him, making the journey home easier._

_He didn't know why, but he spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the night consuming the many stories she had given him. He wasn't particularly fond of reading, but he'd been fuelled by a desire to know her, to enjoy what she enjoyed, to see what made her who she was._

_He'd returned the next day with the books in hand and bags under his eyes. He'd relished in the glint of admiration in her eyes that was hidden beneath her surprised expression._

_"You read them_  all?"  _she'd asked incredulously._

_He'd grinned, joyous – and for some reason, relieved – that he had caught her attention. "Any other recommendations for me, dearie?" he'd asked. He'd sounded as if he was challenging her._

_She'd smiled and rummaged through a stack of books on her desk, before pulling out a tattered paperback. Its pages were no longer crisp and its spine was close to falling apart. He'd read the faded gold inscription on the cover._

"Emma by Jane Austen."

_He hadn't been able to suppress the grimace that had graced his features. He hated reading classics. She'd seen his expression and laughed. "It's really not that bad, once you get into it."_

_He'd merely nodded. He'd then noticed the blue bookmark protruding from the book's pages._

_"Don't you want to finish reading it?"_

_She'd shaken her head and leaned forward to pluck the bookmark from where it was wedged between the many layers of paper. "I've read it before, anyway."_

_The scent of her perfume had lingered in the air amidst the smell of old books and coffee, and he had reluctantly stepped back, saying he would get started on the book right away, despite being too tired to register what he was reading._

_It had taken him three hours to read less than twenty pages, before he'd fallen asleep in the chair, his head falling to the side and the book open against his chest._

_He'd woken to the smell of freshly brewed coffee and something gently tugging his shirt. He'd started in his seat, making the book on his chest clatter to the floor. She'd smiled affectionately at him, rubbing his arm gently as she'd handed him a cup of coffee._

_"Maybe it's time to call it a day," she'd said softly, reaching to close the book on floor._

_He'd merely nodded._

_"Thank you," he'd called after her as she'd turned to walk back to her desk._

_She'd smiled at him over her shoulder._

_He hadn't noticed until he came home that she had marked the page he was on with her bookmark. Her name was written in elegant script in one of the corners._

Belle French.

_He'd held it delicately in his hand before placing it on his bedside table. He never used it as a bookmark. It was too precious for that. He carried it with him, in the inner-pocket of his jacket. It calmed him, having a piece of her with him so close to his heart._

_It was with him now, in the jacket he'd hung on the chair. She'd never asked for it back, and he wasn't planning on returning it. It was the only physical evidence he had that she might care for him._

_He noticed that she had placed the last of the returned books in their designated shelves, and was beginning to clear off magazines and newspapers from the various tables scattered around the room._

_The library was closing, and he would soon have to find a book he could hoard for the next few months, before heading home._

_And then the thought struck him; a small, brave voice whispered to him:_  maybe you don't have to go home alone.

_He took a deep breath before plucking up the courage to say the words aloud._

_"Would you like to go out for coffee?"_

_She turned to face him, a stack of magazines in hand. She was silent for a few moments, contemplating her answer._

_"Now?"_

_Not exactly the answer he was hoping for. He rose from the chair, grabbing his coat before walking towards her._

_"Or just alcohol, if you don't like caffeine after 8 in the evening," he said playfully. He didn't want to give up now that he'd finally dared ask._

_A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth._

_"Where did you have in mind?" she asked._

_He smiled, hoping that she was about to accept. "There's a cosy restaurant North of the park. They have the finest wine in town."_

_"Not that it's hard to beat the watered-down 'Poor-excuse-for-an-alcoholic-beverage' at Granny's," she quipped._

_He laughed, loving how she was now genuinely smiling. "Well, then what do you have to lose?"_

_She shook her head at his methods of persuasion, her smile never fading. "Let me grab my coat," she said, placing the magazines neatly on one of the tables._

_He waited by the entrance, opening the door for her as she put on a beret and shoved her hands in her pockets._

_"You better not disappoint me, Rum. I'm expecting alcohol that's fit for a princess," she joked._

_His heart stuttered ever so slightly at her nickname for him, and he wouldn't have been able to hide his grin even if he'd wanted to._

_"Only the finest for you, dearie."_

* * *

_She peeked at him over the top of her menu, averting her gaze as soon as he looked up at her. She'd insisted they order some dessert to go with the white wine they were sipping. The restaurant was quiet and they had chosen a booth in the back, making it easy for him to pretend that it was just the two of them._

_The restaurant consisted mostly of dark mahogany furniture and exquisite looking chandeliers. The tables and booths were lit by candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the walls, while making one's lover's eyes sparkle, and their cheeks glow._

_"See something you like, dearie?" he asked, mindlessly flicking through the laminated pages of the menu._

_Her gaze flickered up to look at him, and she held her gaze as she said, "Perhaps."_

_Her red lips smiled softly at him._

Perhaps.

 _'Perhaps' meant possibly. It meant there was hope. There was a chance –_ he _had a chance._

_The waiter came to take their order, and Belle kindly ordered two slices of raspberry cheesecake._

_"I've never been here before," she said, her tone filled with curiosity, and something resembling awe. She craned her neck as she studied the chandeliers hanging overhead._

_"You should come here on a Saturday evening. It's busy, but the sounds that accompany large groups of people; the laughter, the voices, the sounds of cutlery scraping against plates, make this place even more beautiful."_

_She turned to look at him again, her smile growing. "Gosh, Rum. I never knew you were so…" She trailed off, her hands making meaningless gestures, searching for the right words._

_"Handsome? Dashing? Charismatic?" he offered._

_"Sentimental."_

_"Sentimental?" he asked incredulously, raising an eyebrow._

_She nodded, taking a sip of her wine._

_"Well, that's a first…" he murmured._

_"You don't agree?" she asked, smiling at the waiter who brought them their dessert. She immediately picked off the raspberries with her fork, piling them together on the side of her plate, explaining how she saved them for last._

_"I wouldn't say_  sentimental  _is one of my most… prominent traits," he said, keeping his tone light._

_"Just because it's not prominent, doesn't mean it's not there," she pointed out matter-of-factly, her eyes watching her fork cut through the layer of pink-tainted cream cheese on her plate._

_Slightly perplexed by her words, he remained silent, not able to find a light-hearted response. She looked up from her food, checking that she hadn't offended him. He smiled wistfully at her._

_"What?" she asked, her mouth full of cake._

_"Do you always see the 'less prominent traits' in people?"_

_He couldn't quite fathom how he had found someone beautiful with an even more beautiful heart, someone able to see the good in everyone. Someone like Belle._

_"Well, I try my best."_

_He took a bite of cake before asking, "Then tell me, what is someone so compassionate and kind-hearted doing working as a librarian in this one-horse town?"_

_She blushed faintly at his kind words. "I definitely want to see the world someday, to have an adventure. But for now I'm happy living here. Big cities are amazing, but small-town communities really have their charms."_

_"That's one way to put it…" he murmured._

_She snickered. "As for the library job, I love books."_

_"I figured as much," he said, smirking. "Why books?"_

_She chuckled. "I just love how emotionally involved I get when reading, how much I care about the characters and what happens to them. I love that I am reading someone's ideas, someone's reality, and how they let me take part, how they let me read the words they spent hours perfecting."_

_Her hands gestured enthusiastically as she spoke, and looking back, if he was ever asked when he knew that she was the one, this moment would be the one that came to mind._

_"Now look who's sentimental," he teased._

_She grinned, before glancing down at her plate, her fork picking at the biscuit base._

_"I want to be an author someday," she said softly._

_He imagined Belle sitting in the library after hours, typing away furiously at her computer, creating worlds full of people with less prominent traits._

_"Have you written anything?" he asked, hoping she would say yes, hoping she would allow him read the words she put on paper._

_She shook her head. "I haven't found the courage to start yet… I have ideas, but I can't structure them. And I'm worried of not getting it right."_

_He found the thought of Belle being afraid of anything bizarre. She was brave enough to see the good in people – she had nothing to be afraid of._

_"Trying to do something without knowing if you're going to succeed is one of the bravest things you will ever do," he said, wanting to reassure her that she was capable, that if the words she wrote were half as beautiful and mesmerising as those she spoke, she had nothing to fear._

_"Maybe someday I'll pluck up the courage," she said wistfully._

_And he couldn't help but hope that he was with her when that day came. They finished their slices of cake in silence, Belle finally eating the raspberries she had saved for last._

_"Do you write?" she asked suddenly._

_His brows furrowed at the question. Just because he toyed with words for a living, didn't mean he was poetic enough to make them sound beautiful and poetic. "No. How so?"_

_"Oh, I just thought, since you also like reading so much."_

_He groaned inwardly. Was this when he had to tell her the only reason he came to the library was to see her? Was this when he admitted how mesmerised he was by her? Was this the moment he scared her off?_

_The answer: no._

_"No, afraid not. Not even one my least prominent traits involves being eloquent."_

_She laughed. "You never know. You, Rumpelstiltskin," she pointed her fork towards him, "could be the next Shakespeare."_

_"I'll start when you start, dearie," he retorted._

_They smirked at each other, both seeing a future in the other's eyes, even if they never said the eloquent words aloud._


	3. Blank Canvas

He shifts in his seat, trying to soothe his right leg, which fell asleep a long time ago. The hard backrest of the chair next to her bed; the chair in which he has been sitting for hours, has made his back stiff, and his eyelids are heavy, tired from studying her face, waiting for a sign of life.

The steady beats of her heart have filled the silence between them for some time, and now they have blended together in his head into a dull, constant ringing. But he doesn't complain. It's a ringing that lets him know she is still with him.

He hasn't let go of her hand. He has done nothing but rub his thumb over her knuckles in a soothing motion, and wait.

Her left arm is trapped in a cast, her nose is swollen, her head is bandaged and bruises have formed all over her body. The doctors are concerned about the trauma to her head, saying they can't be sure of the damage until she wakes up. So that is what he's been doing - waiting to see if his broken Belle can be mended.

He'd told Jefferson to go home. There was no point in two people fussing over her. He'd promised to call him as soon as Belle opened her eyes. That was five hours ago.

He hasn't said a word to her. He could pour his heart out, go down on his knees and beg her to open her eyes, but she still wouldn't be able to hear him. But now he grows desperate. He has to get her to open her eyes. He has to see that beautiful blue that sparkled the day he told her he loved her.

He pulls his chair closer, resting his elbows on his knees. He carefully tucks a tendril of her hair behind her ear before speaking.

"Hello dearest," he begins.

He pauses, searching for the easiest way to plead with her to return to him.

"I don't know if you can hear me… But if you can, know that I'm waiting for you. I'm waiting for you to open your eyes."

He stops, giving her time to respond.

She doesn't stir.

He sighs, deciding to try again. He rests his hand gingerly on top of hers.

"If you can hear me, Belle, just move your fingers. Just a little twitch."

He waits. Nothing.

"Come on, Belle…" His eyes shine with unshed tears as he watches the face of his still wife not respond to his voice. His head ducks and he rests his forehead against their hands. "Sweetheart,  _please,_ " he hisses, squeezing her hand. "Please, wake up."

He doesn't know how long he lies there, trying to blink away the tears that stain the sheets of her bed. But suddenly he feels her muscles flex beneath his fingers. He jolts upright and sees her brows furrow as her bloodshot eyes adjust to the harsh hospital light.

She swallows and turns her head to face him, a small movement that seems exhausting for her. He meets her disoriented gaze and sighs with relief. "Belle!"

A deeper furrow forms between her brows, but before she has time to speak, Rum runs to fetch the doctor.

"Dr. Whale! Dr. Whale!" he shouts as he scours the corridors. He almost collides with the doctor as he rounds a corner. "She's awake! Belle's awake!" he says breathlessly, picking up the journal that got knocked out of the doctor's hands. He shoves the journal into the doctor's hands and tugs his arm, urging him to follow him.

He drags the doctor back to the room Belle's in. She stares at both of them as they enter.

"Welcome back, Belle," Dr. Whale greets as he saunters over to the foot of her bed.

"What happened?" she asks groggily, her voice thick, as she eyes her newly cast arm.

"You were in an accident," Whale explains. "You suffered a broken arm, some bruised ribs and severe head trauma." He takes out a small flashlight from the front pocket of his coat, directing the beam into Belle's eyes. She squints and grimaces at the blinding light.

"Luckily, your skull wasn't fractured and there are no signs of brain damage or bleeding. You should make a full recovery," he says as he scribbles in Belle's journal.

Rum can't suppress his bright smile. Belle is safe. She was going to be all right.

"Oh, how I've missed you, sweetheart," he says, reaching for her hand again. But she pulls away before he gets the chance to touch her.

His hand stills and his smile falters as he sees the genuine confusion on her face. And his smile disappears completely when he notices that beneath that confusion is fear.

"Belle?" he asks, his brows furrowing as he searches those familiar eyes for the woman that loves him. "It's me."

She remains silent.

"Don't you remember me?"

She merely shakes her head.

His tears are returning. "Dearest, it's me. Rumpelstiltskin." His voice wavers.

Her mouth twitches into a small smile. "That's a funny name."

His shoulders slump in defeat and despair. His wife doesn't remember him. She doesn't love him. She doesn't know him.

Whale looks up from writing and notices Rum's devastated expression. His confident smile fades and his gaze flickers between the two. "Belle. Are you saying you don't know who this man is?"

She studies Rum's face, and he can tell she's desperately searching for some spark of recognition. He knows she wants to remember. She shakes her head.

She wants to remember, and yet she doesn't.

Rum feels hot tears of anger and fear wet his cheeks before hitting his lap; anger directed at the universe for playing such a cruel trick on him, and fear of not knowing how to undo it.

He quickly wipes them away. "Belle, I'm your husband. We've been married for nearly six years."

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, trying to make sense of the truth that is them; a truth she believes is a lie.

"Married? I can't be married..." She trails off. Her eyes open and begin searching the room. "Where's Gaston?"

He knew Gaston was a part of Belle's life that had taken place long before they had met. If the memories and feelings from all those years ago are the ones she remembers, then their entire history has been erased. In her mind, they are nothing.

"Belle, I-"

Whale puts a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. Rum looks up and he can see his own worry mirrored in the doctor's eyes.

"Can I speak with you outside?" Whale asks gently, his hand a firm grip on Rum's shoulder, urging him to follow him without a fuss.

Rum glances over at Belle one last time, whose gaze is fixed on her fingers as she fusses with the hospital quilt, before rising and leaving the room, Whale's hand splayed between his shoulder blades, not letting him turn back.

"I'll be back to talk to you in a minute, Belle," Whale says over his shoulder before closing the door behind them.

Rum leans against the wall, struggling to breathe. Whale eyes him, pity written all over his face.

"I understand wha-"

But Rum doesn't hear the rest of the sentence. He is too busy lunging for a trashcan that is standing innocently against the wall, kicking it savagely, and sending it reeling down the corridor. Several nurses turn to look at him in shock.

"You  _do not_ understand!" he shouts, jabbing one finger in the doctor's direction. "That is my wife!  _My wife!_ And she doesn't remember me! She remembers  _nothing_!"

The corridor is silent, no longer filled with noises of bustling nurses and beds being wheeled along the linoleum floor. Whale doesn't say anything to calm him down. He doesn't tell him to be quiet. He lets him voice his heartbreak. Because all doctors know the symptoms of heartache cannot be suppressed or treated.

Rum withdraws the finger that's poking the doctor's chest and kneads the heels of his hands into his eyes. He draws a shaky breath before lowering his hands again.

The corridor eventually stirs when the nurses see the outraged man has shrivelled to nothing more than a grieving and broken husband.

"She doesn't remember me…" he repeats, his voice now faint. "She's gone," he whispers, mortified at how his voice cracks and becomes a sob.

He lowers his head and one of his hands shields his eyes as he lets quiet sobs wash over him. Whale rests one of his hands on his shoulder, this time in comfort.

"Her memory could return. I've seen it before. Sometimes it just takes a few weeks. It's not uncommon to suffer from temporary amnesia after such a traumatic accident."

Rum sniffles and meets the doctor's gaze. He looks so confident, like he really believes Belle will return. But the real question was: was this when he got his hopes up only to be destroyed when she didn't recover?

"And what if she never remembers?" he asks timidly.

"You can't afford to think like that," Whale says simply.

Rum knows he's right. He can't wallow in self-pity, not now.

He straightens his spine; trying to regain what little respect he has left after his breakdown.

He nods. "What do I have to do?" From the look on Whale's face, he can tell his own facial expression says he will do anything, that he won't stop fighting.

"The best thing is to get her back into her everyday routine. Once she starts leading her normal life, her memories will most likely return."

He doesn't bother commenting on the 'most likely' part. Like Whale said, he can't afford to think like that.

He nods and makes his way to Belle's room, but the doctor stops him.

"I think she's had enough confusion for one day. Come back tomorrow, and in a few days she'll be discharged."

He catches a glimpse of Belle through the door's small window. She's studying her wedding ring, holding it up to her eye, trying to make out the inscription inside.

* * *

He arrives at the hospital the next day, a large travelling bag in hand. He's packed five different outfits for her to chose from, her various toiletries, the burgundy blanket she always wraps herself in when reading on the couch, a bouquet of red roses, and photographs; several album's worth.

The dark circles under his eyes make him look haggard; he's spent most of the previous night collecting evidence of their life together, anything that will make her remember. Not that he would have been able to sleep anyway, not with images of Belle's expression, the way she had seen him as nothing but a stranger, being played over and over again behind closed lids.

He turns a corner and is soon standing just outside the door to her room. He takes a deep breath, forcing the corners of his lips upwards, rearranging his features to hide the sorrow in his soul. He doesn't want to upset Belle further.

He can hear muffled voices coming from her room, and he swings the door open. The smile on his face disappears, and his grip on the travelling bag tightens.

Belle is sitting upright in her bed. She has changed out of her hospital gown, and is clad in sweatpants, a sweater and slippers. Her left arm is hanging in a makeshift sling, and she is  _smiling_. The broken woman she resembled just yesterday has already faded. Belle always was a fighter.

Whale is standing by the foot of her bed, and standing next to Belle, with his hand on her shoulder and a bright smile on his face, is Moe.

They all turn to face him as the door hits the wall behind it, announcing his presence. Moe's smile falters and Rum can see the flash of fear in his eyes as he enters the room. Good.

He and Moe had never gotten on. Rum had never been lenient when it came to rent - that is, until Belle had entered his life - and Moe had opposed of their relationship from the very start, calling him a beast when they had announced their engagement.

Rum sees him as nothing but a coward, and Maurice sees him as a controlling not-good-enough-for-my-daughter monster.

"What are you doing here?" Moe asks. Rum notices how he straightens his spine and sets his jaw, trying to look like the brave one. Rum knows the only brave member of the French is the one lying on the hospital bed.

"I'm her husband," Rum says casually, setting the travelling bag on a chair and the roses on her bedside table. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I'm her father."

Belle's gaze flickers between the two, oblivious to the reasons behind the tension between them. She doesn't remember when her father had given her an ultimatum; threatening to practically sever all ties if she accepted Rum's proposal. She doesn't remember how she had made it clear that no one decided her fate but her, that she loved him dearly, that he made her happy. She doesn't remember how that was the moment Rum realized that the woman he had fallen in love with wasn't a princess in need of saving, but a warrior in need of independence.

"I just came to make sure she comes home to the _right_ home after she's discharged," Moe continues, returning Belle's affectionate smile.

Rum feels the years of suppressed resentment and annoyance begin to make their way to the surface.

"What do you mean 'the right home'?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"Belle needs to be around those who love her during her recovery. She needs to be with her family."

" _I_  love her!" he snaps. "I'm the only family she's got." He notices how Belle is staring at him, her eyes wide, her bottom lip trembling ever so slightly. He swallows the bitter words he knows will only hurt her more.

Moe glares at him, but doesn't say anything. Belle has barely spoken to Moe in years, and they both know it. But neither of them says the words aloud.

He realizes there is no point in reasoning with Moe. He won't be willing to lose Belle to the beast a second time. The only chance he has of getting Belle back is convincing Belle to come with him.

He opens the travelling bag and pulls out one of the albums he's brought. He wanders over to her bedside and gently places the heavy book in her lap. "I thought you might like to see these. Maybe they'll help you remember," he says gently, all traces of anger directed at Moe gone from his voice.

Belle looks up at him and he smiles encouragingly at her. She carefully opens the album to a random page.

The page shows them on their honeymoon in Paris. Belle had wanted to visit the old streets, the cafés and the many bookshops. There's pictures of them tasting wine along with other tourists, of Belle sitting on a bench trying to decipher a map of Paris, and a picture of both of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Belle has her arms slung around his neck, a dazzling smile on her face, while his eyes are closed as he kisses her cheek. He remembers how it had taken them ten minutes of poor French and hand-gestures to ask someone to take their photo.

"I've always wanted to go to Paris," she murmurs, flicking to another page.

This page only contains one picture. It's of them during the summer. Rum has his arm around her shoulders and she is hugging his waist. The sun is hitting their faces, making them squint. Beneath the picture is the inscription  _"With my boyfriend Rumpelstiltskin."_

She traces his face with the tips of her fingers. "I look so happy."

Rum can see Moe wants to say something, but he choses not to. He's only just gotten his daughter back. He doesn't want to repeat his past mistakes.

"We were," Rum says wistfully. "We are."

She looks up at him and awards him with a small smile.

She remains silent for a few moments, her brows slightly furrowed as she contemplates her choice. Because it will always be her choice. He will certainly fight for her, but he will never force her to do anything against her will.

"I think I'll try for a while, dad."

She can see Moe is about to protest, but she holds up her hand, urging him to let her speak.

"I promise I will come home if it doesn't work out. I'm a big girl now. I decide my own fate."

"But-" Moe begins.

"I think it would be wise for Belle to continue leading her everyday life, to get back into her routine, which would involve her living with her… husband," Dr. Whale chimes in. He pauses before calling Rum her husband, seeing how uncomfortable it makes her.

Belle reaches for her father's hand. "Please, dad. Let me do this."

Rum sees how reluctant he is. He's pretty sure another ultimatum is already blooming on Moe's tongue.

But he just nods. Perhaps he's not as stupid as Rum likes to think he is.

Moe leans forwards and places a tender kiss on Belle's head. "I'll be back later today," he promises.

Belle merely nods, and doesn't say anything until he's about to close the door behind him.

"Where´s mum?" she asks.

Rum notices how Moe's shoulders slump slightly, how his grip on the door handle tightens.

"She's on a business trip, honey. She'll be home in a few weeks," he says over his shoulder. "She sends her love."

And then he closes the door behind him, shortly followed by Dr. Whale.

They sit in the silence for a few minutes before Belle points to the album. "May I see that again?"

"Of course, my dear. They're your memories too."

He hands her the book and shrugs off his coat, sliding his chair to sit beside her. He then spends the next two hours filling her mind with tangible memories he knows will only be nothing more than distant dreams to her.


	4. Past Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumpelstiltskin takes Belle home.

The drive home is quiet. Belle's gaze is fixed on the houses and parks they drive past on their way home. He can see her expression reflected in the passenger window; how her brows are furrowed in concentration; how she's desperately trying to recall the world that is flying past her eyes in a blur.

Rum parks the car in the driveway and rests his hands on the steering wheel. They both look at the steps leading up to the salmon coloured house. He remembers giving Belle a piggyback ride up those steps when they had first moved in, and Belle whispering in his ear about how the house needed a paint job.

"We live in a pink house?" she asks, sounding slightly incredulous. He chuckles. It seems first impressions never really changed.

"Home sweet home!" he says cheerfully, unbuckling his seat belt and opening his car door. "And it's not pink, it's  _salmon_ ," he says over his shoulder, before stepping out of the car and walking around to open her door for her, making sure she doesn't bang the arm she has in a sling.

"The front door's open!" he calls as he grabs her bag from the boot. A small part of him aches as he sees Belle is waiting on the porch, feeling too much like a stranger to open the door to let herself in.

But he doesn't say anything. He merely forces a warm smile and opens the door for her, gesturing for her to 'go ahead'. She steps over the threshold, and suddenly he feels his house has become a home again. It seems like it's been a lifetime since she's been here with him, when in reality it's only been a little over a week. It's as if the house breathes a relieved sigh as she enters; the main source of light and love has returned.

She stands still for a moment, as if she's trying to find her place in this foreign house a stranger calls her home. She heads down the hall, slowly, timidly, but stops after a few steps and turns to look at him.

"Is it alright if I…?" She gestures towards the door that leads to the kitchen.

"Of course, love. Would you like a tour?"

She smiles, looking somewhat relieved, as if she thought he'd make her do this by herself. "Yes, please."

He drops her bag on the floor and leads her through the various rooms. He shows her the kitchen and explains where the cutlery and teacups are. He shows her the bathroom and warns her that the shower takes a few minutes to heat up. He shows her the walk-in-closet they converted into Belle's small, personal library. He shows her their bedroom, with the heavy drapes, dark walls and the old-fashioned wooden bed with the intricately carved headboard. She tenses slightly beside him, and noticing this, he instantly begins reassuring her, soothing her. He'd promised himself he  _would not_ make her feel uncomfortable.

"We don't have to share a bed, love. I just thought I'd show you, so you know where it is."

She visibly relaxes, and it hurts that she is so frightened at the idea of sharing a bed with him.

"I'll take the guest bedroom, which is right across the hall," he says, pointing to a closed door behind them.

"I'm not kicking you out of your own bed," Belle says. "I'll sleep there." She's determined. She won't change her mind. So he lets her have her way. He's not about to force her to sleep in a bed with linen that smells like him.

Lastly, he shows her the living room, with the fireplace and shelves full of trinkets from his shop. She immediately wanders over to them and begins studying the old dolls and figurines, the cherished heirlooms, and the forgotten treasures. He leans against the doorframe, just watching her, and he can almost pretend that he's got his Belle back – that even though the cruel fates had tried to separate them, it could not be done.

Almost.

"Are you hungry, dear?" he asks, wishing to busy himself.

She nods eagerly.

He smiles wistfully. She always did love her food.

"I'll head down to the shops and get some supplies, and then I'll make us dinner."

He wanders over to her, and he can see how hard she is trying not to step back, to let him get close.

"Sounds good," she says. She's not fully able to meet his gaze. It's as if his presence dulls the bravery he knows she has within.

And suddenly the urge to reach out and touch her is too great. He raises his hand, meaning to cup her face. She closes her eyes and waits, enduring his unfamiliar touch for his sake. And it is this resignation and lack of desire that makes him stop, his hand hovering momentarily before dropping to his side in defeat.

"I'll be back shortly," he promises. He hopes it doesn't sound like a warning – a plea for her not to leave.

But she just smiles, silently promising that she will be there when he returns.

His hands are weighed down by the several grocery bags he is carrying, all containing Belle's favourite foods: her favourite cereal, strawberries, microwave macaroni and cheese, biscuits, and English tea, as well as all the ingredients needed to make two week's worth of fancy dinners. They had some celebration to do, whether or not one of them could remember exactly why.

He places the bags in the kitchen, and can hear the sound of the TV coming from the living room. He can hear his own voice, violin music and a man speaking in a voice full of authority, his words tying two people together for eternity.

He peaks in from the doorway to the living room and sees Belle curled up on the sofa. Her knees are pulled up to her chest and her shoulders are shaking. She is staring intently at the screen in front of her, where grainy footage of their wedding is being shown.

They have just kissed and are walking down the aisle together, leaving the church as one being. The shot blurs and suddenly a close-up of Emma's face fills the screen, an excited and quiet squeak bursting from her lips. The entire church watches them both walk arm-in-arm. The sound of Emma's voice is faint, as if she's leaning towards someone, away from the camera she is holding, but her whispered words can still be understood.

"I know. Those two were made for each other."

He quickly rushes over and turns off the TV, and the screen goes dark. Belle's gaze is still fixed on the screen, and he can now see that she's been crying. Her cheeks are wet, her eyes are weary, and some of her tears have dripped down her neck.

"Oh, love," he says softly, sitting down next to her. He moves to wrap his arms around her, but she pulls away. She doesn't look at him. She just stares at her hands. Her fingers are fiddling with her wedding ring.

He catches one of her hands, forcing her to stop fretting. He laces their fingers together, holding her tightly, and brings her knuckles to his lips.

At this she finally looks at him.

"Everything's going to be alright," he assures her. He doesn't know whom he's trying to convince: himself or Belle. Maybe a little bit of both.

"But what if it doesn't?" she asks, her small voice choked by her sobs.

He finds himself echoing the words he was given when faced with the same, vast, and yet suffocating unknown, of whether his wife would ever remember – ever love – him again.

"We can't afford to think like that."

* * *

_The spectators sitting in the crowded pews all stood as the sound of soft orchestral music started echoing majestically throughout the holy building. It seemed the whole town had gathered, some to celebrate on their behalf, others to see for themselves – how the fearsome Mr Gold had softened and changed for the better, all because of a woman._

_How the Beauty had fallen in love with the Beast._

_Their heads turned in unison, waiting for what they knew would be a stunning sight._

_His heart was pounding in his chest, anticipation and nerves rushing through his veins. This was it. This was the day he tied himself to someone else for the rest of eternity. This was the day he gave his heart away for someone else to hold._

_David must have sensed his nervousness, and he gave his shoulder squeeze, silently reassuring him that it would all be alright. Rum returned his smile. Just having David – his best man – by his side, made it a little less scary._

_The bridesmaids entered first, clad in red, strapless, knee-length dresses of satin._

_Snow was first down the aisle. Her ruby dress was a stark contrast to her pale skin, and her gaze never left David's. Ruby was next, with lips as red as her dress, and dark eyes winking at Archie, who sat in the front row, as she took her place next to Snow._

_And Rum's breath caught in his throat as his bride rounded the corner. Her floor-length gown had a full skirt with a soft, silk train stretching out behind it. Her chestnut locks were adorned with discreet blue gems, holding her half up-do in tact. She was practically glowing, and she beamed at him before taking Jefferson's offered arm. Rum was grateful that he was there by her side, walking with her towards her happy future._

_All eyes followed her as she walked up the aisle._

" _You lucky bastard," he heard David whisper beside him, making him chuckle._

" _Back off, Nolan," he playfully warned under his breath, feeling himself relax, unable to wipe his wide smile from his face._

_The music faded as Belle climbed the steps to join him at the alter, and Jefferson moved to stand next to David. The crowd took their seats and watched as the couple laced their fingers together, their gazes never wavering, their smiles never fading._

_The priest welcomed the assembly, voicing holy words they had all heard before in movies and past weddings; words that had never, until this moment, seemed as profound and promising._

" _I understand you have written your own vows?"_

_They both nodded in unison._

" _Rumpelstiltskin, would you like to go first?"_

" _I would," he said, his hand reaching into his inner pocket, still not able to tear his gaze from Belle. He unfolded the crumpled piece of paper on which were words he had spent the past few weeks fretting over, rewriting and perfecting._

" _My dearest Belle. I vow to cherish you always. I vow to stand by your side, even when you perhaps don't want me there. I vow to help you laugh and love life. I vow to always cherish your kisses and touches."_

_He couldn't help but lift his gaze from the paper he was holding, just to catch a glimpse of Belle's face. Her eyes were alight with unshed tears and happiness._

" _I vow to protect you against life's cruelties. I vow to have the patience love demands. From this day forth, these are my promises to you."_

_Belle took a shaky breath before turning to Ruby, who handed her a small, significantly-less crumpled piece of paper._

_Belle cleared her throat before speaking._

" _My darling Rumpelstiltskin. I vow to love you always, even when you don't love yourself. I vow to be the shoulder you can lean on when needs be. I vow to always support you, as you have always supported me. I vow to let you live your dreams. I vow to call wherever you are 'home'. I vow to always hold your hand through difficult times. I vow to treasure you – my one true love – far, far longer than forever."_

_The silence was broken by a sniffle coming from where Snow and Ruby were standing. Rum looked over and saw Snow hastily wiping away tears. She smiled apologetically at him._

_Next were the rings. David handed Rum the velvet box he had spent the whole morning double-checking was still in his pocket._

" _I, Rumpelstiltskin, take thee, Belle to be my lawfully wedded wife."_

 _He slipped the gold, diamond-encrusted ring on Belle's ring finger, inside of which was the inscription "_ Forever yours."

_Belle then slipped a woven band of gold on his finger, and rubbed soothing circles on his knuckles._

_They then in turn repeated sacred words that only reinforced what they - and the spectators in the pews - already knew; that they would stay together forever, that their love would not waver, and stand the test and challenges of time._

" _I now pronounce you husband and wife."_

_Their kiss was tender. Rum brought his hands up to cup her face, and Belle held onto one of his wrists. As Rum pulled back, he noticed that a tear had escaped and was slipping down Belle's cheek, which he kissed away affectionately._

_She smiled at him lovingly and proceeded to take his arm as the orchestral music started again; music that accompanied their walk down the aisle as one being – one soul._

_*     *     *_

_The reception lasted well into the night. The town hall had been decorated in whites, creams and beiges, with roses and fine china, and a large space had been cleared for their first dance. After they had eaten, Rum held out his hand, bowing playfully. "Would the young lady join me for a dance?"_

" _She most certainly would." She curtseyed before linking her arm through his._

_He let his hand rest on her waist, holding her close, their chests touching. They swayed to the gentle music and stole kisses when they felt like it. The crowd had gathered around the edge of the dance floor to watch, most of them wishing such love could be seen and acknowledged more often._

" _You look beautiful, love," he said softly._

" _You clean up pretty good, yourself," Belle teased, her eyes twinkling with playful happiness._

_He chuckled. "But I must say, that dress has a shocking lack of satin." He leaned in, letting his lips ghost across the shell of her ear as his voice lowered to a mere whisper. "I hope there's an acceptable amount underneath."_

_He revelled in how her breath stuttered, but her composure soon returned, a retort at the ready._

" _Always the gentleman." She pulled him down for a kiss, threading her fingers through his hair. She then grew bolder and caught his lower lip between her teeth, nipping playfully before pulling away. He heard a noise of delight coming from the spectators and turned his head to see Emma, turning her video camera on._

" _Do that again! I didn't get it on tape!"_

_Belle just laughed. "Once more for the crowd?" she said against his lips, smiling._

" _Certainly, my dear."_


	5. Familiar Faces

Belle winces in pain as she rolls over, her broken arm momentarily caught between her body and the mattress. She squints at the morning light that is streaming through a crack in the curtains before turning onto her back.

She can’t remember when she’d finally fallen asleep last night, just that it had taken a long while. She had looked around the guest room she’d insisted on sleeping in before nestling beneath the unfamiliar sheets. She hadn’t found much; some summer dresses in the wardrobe that she assumed belonged to her, more books, and photographs. Those were the hardest to look at – the graphic memorabilia of what she couldn’t recall. The Belle she saw encased in picture frames felt like a stranger; a version of herself she didn’t know, who had fallen in love with yet another stranger. They _both_ seem like strangers to her. And it scares her. 

There had been a picture of her and Rum on the bedside table, but after staring at it for a few minutes, trying to force some form of recognition to appear, she had placed it face down, not wanting that to be the last thing she saw before going to sleep.

Even now, when the chilling darkness that comes along during the late hours has retreated, she can’t bring herself to turn it right side up.

She sits up and awkwardly massages her sore shoulder before wandering over to the window, pulling the curtains aside. She cranes her neck, looking up and down the street, trying to acknowledge it as her neighbourhood – her home. She can’t remember wanting to live in such a small and quiet-looking town. She’d always envisioned herself living in a small apartment in a city that bustled and hummed and thrived, a place with its own heartbeat and rhythm. Rum must have been worth it.

She opens the bedroom door carefully and peers out into the hall. Rum’s bedroom door is closed. She pads softly across the landing, not wishing to wake him, and ventures down to the kitchen.

She hears the humming before she opens the door, along with the muffled metallic sounds of cooking. Rum is standing by the oven, spatula in hand, a growing stack of pancakes by his side. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, its hem tucked into the waistband of his dark slacks.  

“Morning,” she greets, slightly timid, lingering at the threshold.

He stops mid-hum and turns to look at her over his shoulder. He smiles brightly at her, waving the spatula in mock salute, and if she was being completely honest with herself, she might admit he looks handsome.

“Good morning, dearie. Sleep okay?”

He flips another pancake onto the stack and turns off the cooker, placing the pancakes on the table, which Belle notices has been set for two.

She decides not to mention the frustration and the feeling of being out of place that had made it hard for her to eventually succumb to sleep, and settles on “Good.”

“I hope you’re hungry,” he says, setting syrup and jam on the table.

She just nods.

“Dig in, love,” he says gently, placing his hand on the small of her back affectionately. Belle knows this must be a habit for him, an act of normalcy, but Belle can’t help how her shoulders tense, how the hand that is resting on her thigh balls into a fist.  

His touch is quickly removed and Belle can hear him clear his throat uncomfortably. She doesn’t dare look at him. She just twists the ring around her ring finger.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks, his voice as bright and cheery as it was a few minutes ago, for which Belle is grateful.

“Yes please. Two sugars, no-“

“No milk,” he finishes. “Yes, I know.” 

Belle smiles apologetically at him before looking away, turning her attention to pouring maple syrup over her pancakes.

He sets her tea in front of her and joins her at the table. She sips the warm liquid delicately, letting its warmth glide down her throat and soothe her worries and unease. She notices that it tastes exactly as how she brews it. And she doesn’t know if the fact that this man knows her almost as well as she knows herself – well the _old_ her, anyways – brings her comfort or a feeling of anxiety. All she knows is that he’s trying to help. So all she does is eat her pancakes.

He doesn’t bring up the past or reminisce. Their conversation at the breakfast table is nothing but innocent small talk.

“I have to go to the shop today,” he says eventually, pushing his empty and jam stained plate away from him.

“That’s alright.” She dunks a biscuit in her tea and eats it gingerly, trying to prevent the soggy biscuit from crumbling in her lap.

“Will you be okay on your own? It’ll only be for a couple of hours.” He places their dishes in the sink and wipes the counter. Belle can’t help but think how odd it is to see him acting so domestically. It’s almost as if a tiny part of her knows it’s unlike him.

“I’ll be fine. Gives me a chance to have a small adventure,” she says happily. She knows that if he’s not here, she won’t be able to stay in the house. She’ll have to get away from it all until he gets back.

He smiles and grabs his jacket that’s slung over the back of a chair.

“Right then,” he says, straightening his tie.

He shifts awkwardly for a few moments, not quite sure how to say goodbye. He settles on a wave and heads towards the hall. Even though she doesn’t know his body yet, she can see the tension that is residing in his shoulders, how hard this is for him.

“Wait!”

He stops in his tracks, hand on the doorframe. She walks over to him and dusts off the collar of his jacket, busying her hand as she works up enough courage to do what she’s about to do.

“Have a good day,” she says before leaning in to press a soft and chaste kiss to his cheek. It is brief and controlled and uncertain, but the wide smile on his face when she pulls away makes it all worth it.

 

 

Getting dressed had been a feat in itself. It was too cold outside to wear one of her dresses, and all her warmer items of clothing were too tight around the arms to accommodate her bulky cast. And there was no way she was cutting up any of the clothes the old her used to wear. What if she accidentally ruined the old her’s favourite sweater?

So it had been with great reluctance and a deep breath that she had ventured into Rum’s room in search of larger clothing.

His room hadn’t been as dark as the day before. The drapes had been pulled aside and the bed hadn’t been made, the duvet slipping off one corner of the bed, the sheets and pillowcase rumpled. He slept on the left side of the bed, and she hadn’t been able to suppress the sad smile that had tugged at the corner of her mouth. She had always preferred the right side.

She had wandered over to his closet, in which countless suits and shirts hung side by side. She had shaken her head fondly upon finding the drawer containing only ties with matching handkerchiefs, and had blushed when finding his underwear and sock drawer.

She had sifted through the countless silk shirts, wondering if this man wore _anything else_. She had been relieved to find more casual clothing in a separate cupboard; jeans, sweaters, long-sleeved t-shirts. She had chosen a dark pullover with plenty of room in the sleeves. She had tried to convince herself that it was the loose fit that had made her choose it, and not the fact that it didn’t smell too much like him.

Even though wearing his clothes had been uncomfortable at first, she is now grateful for the warmth it provides as she walks from the salmon house, her heart set on finding a safe haven until Rum comes home.

She has her phone in hand and is writing down the random corners she turns and which streets she decides to venture down for later, when she has to make her way back.

It doesn’t take long for her to walk out of the residential part of town and into what must be the “city centre”. There are more cars here and people with unfamiliar faces are on the sidewalks, navigating their way through a town they know like the back of their hand. She doesn’t stop anyone to ask for directions. She doesn’t know what she is looking for. So instead she just keeps turning corners, alternating randomly between taking a left and taking a right. She doesn’t know if she’s relieved or disappointed that she doesn’t come across Rum’s shop.

Soon enough she sees a neon sign pointing towards a cosy-looking house surrounded by a green picket fence, the glaringly lit letters announcing it to be “Granny’s Diner.”

Certain that any place offering food and old ladies with grandchildren would serve as an excellent place to pass the time, Belle walks through the simple, white wooden arch and ventures inside.

The bell above the door announces her presence, and Belle considers turning on her heel and leaving when every pair of eyes turns to look at her. It is looks of fear, pity and wonder. And she hates every single one of them.

She straightens her back and they look away when she meets their gaze, unflinching, strong. She chooses an empty booth in the back and slides in on the bench facing the wall, allowing her to look out over the diner. This way no one will be staring at her back without her knowing.

She stares intently at the menu, if only to busy herself, until she feels someone come up to her table. A sharp and un-ladylike request for them to go away is at the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it when she sees it’s just the waitress.

The waitress studies her for a few moments, and Belle thinks she can see sadness in her eyes that are framed by dark eye shadow and even darker and bolder eyeliner.

Then she shakes her head slightly, as if willing the sadness away.

“Here,” she says as she places a glass of iced tea on the table in front of Belle.

Belle furrows her brows in confusion. “But I didn’t order anything.”

“I know. But you usually always order an iced tea,” she explains, her painted red lips stretched into a small, wistful smile.

Oh God. Another one; someone Belle doesn’t remember and is expected to be able to place and open up to and _remember_.

“Oh,” is all Belle responds with.

The waitress shifts awkwardly, her fingers fidgeting with her apron, before she quickly slides into the seat opposite Belle. She leans in and looks at her closely, as if she’s searching for something. Belle notices it’s the same look Rum gives her when he’s looking for the Belle he is in love with.

“You really don’t remember, do you?” she asks gently.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Belle murmurs, her gaze now fixed on her hand in her lap, unable to watch as this woman looks for the version of Belle that probably knew her.

“Well, I’m Ruby,” she says, smiling sweetly, extending her hand across the table. Belle shakes it and smiles at how polite she is being, how she isn’t asking questions Belle doesn’t know the answers to.

“Belle,” she replies, earning a chuckle from Ruby.

She takes a sip of her iced tea before asking, “Were we friends?”

Ruby’s smile disappears, and Belle regrets asking, but she has to know. These are the kind of things she has to ask if she is to get back to being the Belle everyone around her seems to love and miss.

“Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

And now Belle actually recognizes her. She remembers those dark curls and red lips from her wedding footage. Ruby had been one of Belle’s bridesmaids. They must have been close. Knowing this made Belle feel safer, safer than she felt around Rum. Unlike Ruby, Rum expected her heart.  

“We _are_ ,” Ruby adds.

Belle doesn’t think she can phrase the rush of relief and comfort and affection that she feels for this woman who doesn’t seem to be expecting anything of her, but instead just offers her friendship as though nothing has changed. So she hopes to convey all this in the bright smile she flashes.

“So how did we mee-“

“Belle?”

Belle’s question is interrupted by someone calling her name. Belle looks up and sees a young woman with very short dark hair and a round, delicate face. The cardigan and high-waist jeans she has on now is so different from the strapless red dress, but Belle recognizes her from the wedding video.

Even though Belle is able to place her face, no name is appearing out of the dense haze that fogs her memories.

“Hi… I’m- I’m sorry, I… I don’t remember your name…” Belle trails off, worried she has hurt this woman’s feelings.

But she is as graceful as Ruby and hardly misses a beat.

“I’m Snow,” she says cheerfully, her eyes not scrutinizing or searching for someone other than the Belle she is now. Her name suits her, what with the dark hair, fair complexion and rosy lips. It’s like she stepped out of a fairytale.

“What a pretty name,” she says as she shakes Snow’s hand.

And now Snow’s smile dims ever so slightly, and her eyes seem to drift off, reminiscing. “You said that last time, too.”

And suddenly Belle is reminded of the fact that these people know her and to her they are strangers. And she feels silly for repeating herself- the _old_ her.

Belle doesn’t say anything. Ruby’s gaze flickers between the two of them, looking like she wants to break the silence. But Snow beats her to it.

“At least that means you meant it the first time,” Snow smiles.

Belle has to admit that if there’s one thing she’s grateful for, it’s the old her’s great taste in friends.

 

Ruby and her had met in a bar. Ruby had retold the tale of how Belle had rescued her from the Evil Dragon that was a pushy guy who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Apparently Belle had thrown her drink in his face when he’d started coming on to her instead. Belle can’t remember when she became so brave.

Ruby had later introduced her to Snow, whom Belle had instantly taken a liking to, much like the second time around. After only spending a few hours with her, Belle can already tell how kind-hearted, forgiving and loving Snow is.

She doesn’t know what she is most grateful for: the fact that she met these two wonderful people in the past, or that they have the patience to give her the chance to get to know them all over again.

She leaves after multiple glasses of iced tea and a hamburger with a promise of meeting up with them for a night of proper catching up. Belle feels lighter leaving Granny’s Diner, like she knows she might actually have a chance to be happy in this life that has already been laid out for her. By herself.

She pulls out the directions for home and heads back the way she’d come, trying to memorize various buildings for next time, when she might not need directions.

She is busy trying to make sense of what she had hastily punched in earlier when a car pulls up next to her, the passenger window rolling down.

“Belle?”

Belle stops dead in her tracks.

Finally it’s a voice she recognizes! It’s a voice she can place, a voice that has called her ‘sweet heart’ and ‘baby’, a voice that has whispered filthy nonsense in her ear, a voice that has shouted and then spoken soft words of apology, a voice that has told her ‘I love you’.

“Gaston?”

She spins to see the face of the only man she remembers loving, craning to look at her, his body leaning across the passenger seat. He hasn’t changed much since she last saw him, only a few weeks ago.

Or was it years?

She rushes over to the car, bending down to beam at the familiar face, thrilled that she has finally found someone from her past.

“It’s so good to see you,” she sighs.

He grins at her. “Get in.”

She throws her arm around his neck as soon as the door closes behind her. He smells the same. Just as she remembered. 

“I missed you,” she says, her voice softer.

Why did she ever leave this man? She must have found happiness elsewhere. The husband she had breakfast with just this morning is obvious proof of this.

“I missed you, too, babe,” he muffles into her hair.

She doesn’t want to pull away, but she has so much to ask. But before she gets the chance to ask what happened to them, why things between them changed, he says:        “So it’s true, then? You don’t remember anything?”

“No,” she says solemnly, picking at a loose thread in her jeans.

They don’t say anything for a few moments. His gaze is fixed straight ahead as he eventually asks, “Are you alright?”

“Not really at the moment… But I will be, soon.”

At this he looks at her. His smile is sad and there is something about the look he’s giving her… Whilst everybody else has been looking at her like they’re trying to peel away her layers, Gaston is looking at her like he remembers and knows the Belle in front of him, but it still isn’t enough.

She never really was enough for him. Was that why she had left?

The car pulls away from the curb and they pull out onto the road.

“Where are we going?”

“To your fathers.”

She doesn’t really feel like seeing her father right now. But she also doesn’t want to go home yet. She doesn’t know if Rum is back from work. And her father had always liked Gaston. Perhaps this would please him.

“So… how have you been?” she asks.

“Good. Work’s going well. Just put a millionaire behind bars for embezzlement. I’ll never forget the look on his face as they hauled him out of the court room,” he chuckles.

That is another reason why her father had liked Gaston so much; he was a lawyer. And Moe had always wanted his darling daughter to start her own practice with Gaston as her partner. The thought of crisp suits and paperwork and stern faces makes her skin crawl. She can’t help but wonder if the old her had felt the same way.

But Gaston’s determination to “get the bad guys off the streets” had been one of the things she had liked – still likes – most about him. She thinks he sees himself as a knight in shining armour, fighting battles on behalf of those who can’t fight for themselves.

“I’m glad,” she says, happy that he’s happy.

Her mind knows they’ve been apart for too long, that the words they whispered on each others skin and the marks they made on each others soul have faded and been replaced by other marks and other words, but her body still wants to reach out. So she carefully threads her fingers through his that aren’t on the steering wheel. And he lets her, looking down briefly at their entwined hands, his lips quirked into a wistful smile.

She still remembers the road trips they took, to cottages and big cities; places where they could lose themselves and rediscover each other. Those were the times they were always the happiest, when other people couldn’t influence the way Gaston held her hand, and she would forget they’d made him hold it differently.

Soon enough they are parked outside her father’s house and Gaston is helping her get her arm through the seatbelt.

He doesn’t get out to open the door for her like he sometimes used to. Perhaps he feels like it’s been too long.

“Do you want to come inside?” she asks timidly, sounding like a teenager again, like she’s on her first date.

He looks torn for a moment, before he says “No. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She hopes she isn’t imagining how regretful he sounds. In case he’s assuming the role of chivalry, she gives him one more chance.

“Sure? Not even for a few minutes?”

He chuckles and she recognizes the fond look he is giving her. It’s one of the few things she has recognized since waking up in hospital.

But then his smile fades slowly and he leans in and reaches out to cradle her cheek in the palm of his hand. And because it’s a touch she is familiar with – a touch she remembers craving with her entire being – she leans into it.

He strokes her cheekbone with his thumb before closing the space between them and placing a soft, tender kiss to her lips.

“You’re married, remember?” he whispers as his hand drops from her face and he pulls away.

And suddenly the ring around her finger feels like it’s weighing her down and the scent of Rum on his sweater that hadn’t been there earlier is numbing her senses, fogging her mind. She needs air.

“Right,” she whispers, feeling uncomfortable and embarrassed. Even though she doesn’t love Rum, he loves her, and it is unfair to do this to him. “Thanks for the ride.”

She scrambles out of the car and hurries up the walk to her father’s house. Gaston doesn’t linger or watch her walk away. He quickly pulls away, his car speeding down the road.

At least she doesn’t feel like she has to knock. She just opens the door and calls out, announcing her presence.

“Hi Dad!”

She walks into the living room to find Moe sitting in his armchair by the fire, newspaper in his lap. He smiles brightly at her, heaving himself up out of the chair, enveloping her in an affectionate hug, being careful of her cast.

“How’s my favourite daughter?”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. She’s heard this before.

“I’m your _only_ daughter,” she reminds him playfully, playing her part in their well-rehearsed routine.

“Same thing,” Moe responds, ruffling her hair like he did when she was a child. He used to do it even after she had grown up, but she can’t remember when he did it last. She only has a feeling that it was a while ago.

“How have things been?” he asks casually, but Belle can hear the underlying questions. _Are you coping okay? How does it feel living with a man you hardly know? Are you scared?_

“Alright, I guess. Rum’s very accommodating.”

She can’t really find the bravery to say how she’s afraid of his scent, how she’s scared she’ll never find herself again, that she’ll be stuck in between two lives, that she’ll have to break the heart of someone who loves her if she finds herself unable to love them back. That she may still be in love with someone else.

So she leaves it at that.

But she can tell that he knows she’s holding back. And she knows he’s choosing not to say anything.

“You know you can always come home. If you want,” he says, his voice laced with concern.

Yes, she does know this. Her father has always been there to catch her – at least for as long as she can remember. Perhaps that would be the easiest solution. To just say ‘it isn’t working out’, that her and Rum don’t belong together, that they should both have a fresh start. But there must be _something_ there. She did _marry_ him after all. Maybe it’s just that not enough time has passed. It’s all still too unknown, too foreign. Maybe when she finds her place and becomes comfortable and manages to fill in the blank spaces in her memory, maybe then history will repeat itself and she’ll fall for the man she’s already tied to again.

It is still too soon to tell. It is too soon to back out. She has to do the brave thing and keep trying. If not for her sake, then for Rum’s.

“Not yet, dad. I have to try, just for a little longer.”

He smiles down at her and nods. “You always were a fighter.”

“I never cared much for being a damsel in distress,” she quips, grateful that they’ve reverted back to jokes and playfulness, where it’s safe.

“Will you be staying a while?”

“No, I better head back. Rum will be home soon.” She’s allowing herself time to get lost a couple of times before finding her way home.

“I could drive you,” Moe offers, heading for the hook in the kitchen where his car keys hang.

“No, no. I need to get to know this town better anyways. I’ll drop by again soon, okay?”

She stretches up to kiss his cheek before heading for the front door. Then she suddenly remembers.

“How’s Mum doing?”

It takes him a moment before he answers, and she almost doesn’t notice how his smile falters ever so slightly.

“She’s good. Talked to her on the phone earlier. She sends her love.”

“Say hi from me the next time she calls!” Belle calls over her shoulder as she heads out the front door.

“Will do, love,” she hears Moe call from the doorway behind her. She wonders if it’s the distance between them and the chilly wind by her ear that makes his voice sound slightly strained.

 

 


	6. Relics

_He ambushed her in the kitchen when her back was turned. She arched in surprise into his touch, and he murmured against her jaw that he had a little something for her._

" _Is it the same as the two "little-something's" you gave me last night?" she asked, teasing and slightly breathless._

 _He chuckled. "I'd hardly call it_ little _."_

_She smirked. "Well, as long as you're content."_

" _Do you want your present or not?" He tried to sound threatening, but they both knew he loved her too much to deny her anything._

_She laughed, nodding eagerly._

_He kissed her temple before covering her eyes with his hands, his wedding band cold against her cheek._

" _No peaking, now, dearie," he whispered in her ear. He relished in how his voice still made her shiver._

_She stretched her arms out in front of her, blindly searching for obstacles as he led her through their home. She knew they'd ended up in the living room. She recognised the wood beneath her bare feet and the sounds it made when they padded across it._

_He made them stop, instructing her to keep her eyes closed. He removed his hands and moved to stand in front of her, next to her present. He wanted to see her face._

" _Okay, sweetheart. Now you can look."_

_He hoped the look on her face would stay with him till the day he died, and maybe even after. Her eyes lit up and her mouth fell open for a split second before stretching into a beaming smile; the kind you know is genuine; the kind that made him fall a bit more in love with her. If he never accomplished anything more in his lifetime, at least he'd made her smile like that._

_On the desk littered with books and bills and hand-written drafts of Belle's thoughts stood an antique typewriter. Its gold inscription had faded over the years and the 'w' required a little force to press, but otherwise it was in pristine condition. In it was a single sheet of paper, where words in freshly dried ink were printed._

"Write about the many years to come."

_She ran her fingers gently over the keys. "I love it," she said softly, her voice shaking ever so slightly._

_He knew this was the push she needed to pursue her dreams. She had plenty of courage, but now he'd reminded her to actually use it, to create something memorable, something to be proud of._

" _Your words are going to change the world someday, Belle French. This is just to help you find them."_

_She flung her arms his neck, holding him tightly, and he encircled her waist with one arm, his fingers threading through her hair._

" _Thank you," she whispered into his shoulder._

_She pulled back and cupped his face with both hands before capturing his lips in a kiss that quickly turned fiery. The hand in her hair tightened possessively as he licked his way into her mouth, welcoming the familiar taste, the familiar warmth. All too soon did she pull away for air, her forehead resting against his as their breaths mingled between them._

" _Happy one year anniversary, dearest."_

* * *

 

Rum calls out her name as he enters the hall. His words are met with silence.

"Belle?" he calls out again, more timidly this time.

He finds her sitting by the desk in the living room, her hands resting in her lap, her gaze fixed on the typewriter in front of her.

Her cast has been off for weeks and all the scars from the accident have practically disappeared. She now knows where all the utensils and cutlery belong in the kitchen. Rum can hear her avoid the steps that creek the most in the middle of the night. Nowadays he comes home to find her already there; for a long time she'd stayed out until the cold chill of approaching nightfall became too much to bear. She has memorized the story of how they met, if only to convince herself that it actually happened. She has even shared a bed with him once. Rum had been careful to stay on his side of the bed. All he'd allowed himself was to face her sleeping form and watch the rise and fall of her back as sleep slowly claimed him. He'd woken up to an empty bed, the duvet carefully tucked in place, the pillow smoothed down. It had still been the best night sleep he'd had in a long time.

And now she is faced with another relic from her old life; a symbol of all the old her wanted to become. The desk is covered with short stories and drafts she has written over the years. They had been in a folder in one of the desk drawers, but she must have discovered where her old self put them. Some are incoherent, whilst some are dozens of pages long; stories with characters Belle cared for and spent hours hurting and loving and comforting. They are all small steps towards what she had hoped to accomplish one day. Rum hopes the Belle that is sitting with her back to him wants the same things.

"Is this mine?" she asks, not taking her eyes off the typewriter.

"Yes." He walks over to stand behind her. He lets one of his hands rest between her shoulder blades. She doesn't flinch or stiffen, and he feels it is a small triumph.

"Your biggest dream was to become an author. But you were scared. Scared of not getting it right, of your words not making someone _feel_ something. I think this helped you summon the last piece of courage you needed to start." He remembers Sunday afternoons spent watching Belle typing away furiously, her fingers trying to keep up with her thoughts, only stopping to brew more tea.

"Was I any good?" she asks. She sounds regretful, as if this version of her cannot achieve any greatness the Belle she doesn't remember accomplished.

He pulls up a chair and sits down next to her, laying a hand over hers. He figures she needs to see his face when he reminds her of how wonderful and  _capable_ she is.

"I remember you reading things of your own creation to me late at night when I couldn't sleep. They were meant to lull me to sleep, but your stories kept me wide awake. I hung on your every fictitious word."

Her lips quirk into a small smile.

"One night you read me a story of a son who loses his father in a war and is forced to flee his village when bandits attack. It was at least a hundred pages long and you got tired around halfway. I let you go to sleep and crept downstairs to finish the story myself. I think I fell asleep around dawn." Belle had found him asleep in the armchair the next morning, the pages of her short story tucked against his chest, close to his heart.

"Sure you're not just saying this because it's in your job description?" He can tell she means it as a joke, but she cannot hide the uncertainty in her voice.

He curls a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him. "I'm positive, love."

Relief flickers across her face as he ensures her that his words are true, that he believes she can still accomplish great things. "Your words have the power to reduce an old cynic like me to tears," he adds jokingly, earning a chuckle from her.

Her gaze flickers to a frame hanging above the desk, in which a piece of paper is framed, with the words  _Write about the years to come._ Her brows furrow. "Did you give me this?" she asks.

He withdraws his touch. "It was our first anniversary present."

"Oh."

Her fingers trail over the keys of the typewriter, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I'm sorry I don't remember," she says, sounding truly saddened.

He squeezes her knee affectionately, anchoring her to the here and now, to what is important. "It's no matter, love. I remember for the both of us."

And he finds that he actually believes what he's saying. He sees that Belle is trying everyday. And he knows getting stuck in the past and how happy they  _used to be_ will only get in the way of how happy they  _can_  be. He decides it's time for them to start acting like a couple, even if it's just baby steps.

"Grab your coat, dearie!" he says in a singsong tone, patting her knee playfully before springing from his chair, grabbing the coat he discarded over the back of the sofa.

"Where are we going?" she asks, confused at his sudden burst of energy.

"Out," he says with a flourish of his hands before disappearing into the hall. He smiles as he hears Belle's footsteps following him, not questioning him any further. To him, it is a small – and joyous - testimony of her trust in him.

* * *

He leads them to a restaurant in the southern part of town; a place with dark mahogany furniture cast in golden light from the chandeliers hanging above. He insists on them sitting in the same booth as last time. He doesn't know if he's being nostalgic, or if he's hoping the familiarity of the situation will spark some form of recognition in her.

It doesn't.

The conversation doesn't flow as freely as it did all those years ago. He recognizes her quirks; how she eats with the fork in her right hand despite being right-handed, how she traces the rim of her wineglass with her index finger, how she saves her favourite part of her meal for last.

The questions he asks to fill the silence are innocent, safe, and he can tell Belle is grateful for this. He realizes that there's a part of him that will always be a coward.

And he is reminded yet again that she is the brave one of the two when she seems to inwardly make a decision to clasp his hand on the walk home. He shoots her a look of happy disbelief, but she is staring straight ahead. He brings their joined hands to the pocket of his coat, shielding her fingers from the approaching cold of night time. He can feel her wedding ring against his.

* * *

"How is everything at home, Belle?"

She is sitting on the examination bed in Dr Whale's office. The grey paper crinkles beneath her weight, making noises as she shifts her legs. It's been almost two months since she was here last, removing her cast.

Whale had insisted she come see him again, to check up on if she was remembering anything. She hadn't remembered anything then, and she fiddles with her wedding ring – a habit that has evolved into a nervous tic - as she admits that she doesn't remember anything now.

"It's been nearly five months," she murmurs. She wonders if she only sounds panicky to her own ears. She has tried to grow immune to the look of hurt that flits across Rum's face when he realizes that she doesn't recall what he's talking about on the few occasions he accidentally reminisces. She pushes herself into sharing a bed with him some nights, and she has managed to wake up by his side two times. But she never stays for long.

"What if I never remember?" She feels the hot burn of oncoming tears and quickly wipes away the few that escape.

She doesn't know if she can keep up this charade, this pretending to be someone she's not. She doesn't want to remain at Rum's side because of obligation. She wants to be able to stay because she needs him by her side. And she's just not there yet. And she's feels like she's pretending that she is. And that's not fair to either of them.

"It's a possibility, but stranger things have happened in the world of medicine. You might wake up tomorrow fully recovered. It's hard to know."

That is possibly the thing she hates the most about all this; the uncertainty of  _will I, won't I_.

"Have you tried starting from the last place you remember and working your way through the years you can't recall? Perhaps sorting the physical evidence of those years and trying to make sense of it will help you remember?"

She hasn't. The wedding video and the typewriter and the few framed photos that are displayed around their house are more than enough. She hasn't had the guts to seek out more relics.

Whale takes her silence as a 'no'.

"Perhaps that would be a good place to start."

* * *

She comes home to find the house empty. She shrugs off her coat and heads straight for the living room. She sits down by the typewriter and begins sifting through words she put down on paper long ago, hoping it might set alight some urge in her to write again.

The words don't feel right. They feel foreign and taste bitter on her tongue as she reads some passages aloud. She feels like she's prying through someone's private thoughts. She feels like she's intruding. So she puts the stories and drabbles away and begins hunting for a photo album.

She finds one in one of the bookshelves, among cookbooks and interior magazines all dating back six or seven years; around the time when they first moved in.

She skims through the various pictures, letting the familiar and unfamiliar faces fly past her as she tries to take it all in and sort them in her mind. After flicking through the whole album twice, she decides to try to sort them chronologically. She takes the photos out of their clear pockets and goes by hair length and age lines and dates on the backs of some of the picture, lining them up on the floor, in a way that depicts the time of her life she has experienced and now feels she's missed out on.

She looks slightly younger and Rum looks handsome in the photos. She traces the lines in the corners of his eyes on the pictures that have captured him laughing. She notices they are touching in every single photo of them together, be it a hand on a shoulder, a knuckle grazing a cheek, or fingers woven together in unity. She imagines she can see the way their souls have begun to entwine in some of the stills.

She finds herself hoping that perhaps a time will come when their entwined souls will once again be captured on film, flickering fiercely and steadily between them.

She doesn't notice how long she's been crouched on the floor until Rum comes home hours later.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

She stands and stretches, trying to relieve herself of the stiffness in her neck.

"Just trying to put the lost years back together," she jokes.

He huffs a laugh, but the worry and trepidation she knows he's feeling is etching small lines between his brows. She wants to smooth those lines away, to reassure him that's she's doing this for them. So they can both be happy again. So they can rid themselves of this strain that is weighing down on them both.

So she does just that.

She leaves behind the fragments of her past that are scattered on the floor and walks to stand in front of him, their chests almost touching. She touches her fingers lightly to the furrow between his brows and trails her fingers across his brow and down his cheek before coming to rest in the crook of his neck. She can't help but notice how he immediately relaxes under her touch. This is all familiar to him.

"I want to try something," she whispers.

His eyes widen as she leans in ever so slowly. She stops when their lips are barely touching, the warmth only a hairsbreadth away. He remains still, letting her set the pace, giving her the chance to pull away if she changes her mind. And it's this freedom and choice that he's constantly giving her that makes her close that small piece of remaining distance.

She presses her lips to his. Her lips are still as her thumb rubs the skin by his jaw. It is chaste and hesitant and innocent. And Belle is suddenly overcome with the feeling that she normally isn't a chaste and hesitant kisser – not with Rum; that she has fire and passion locked up inside her somewhere. So she opens her mouth slightly, capturing one of his lips between hers, sucking and nibbling gently, growing used to the feel of his lips. The fire and the passion is slowly trickling through the cracks of the wall she hadn't fully realized she'd built and hidden behind these past months.

And suddenly she feels him let go of his restraint and return the kiss urgently. He snakes a hand in her hair, the other holding her close to his chest. And now the fire and the passion is spilling out of her, drowning her, freeing her.

She runs her tongue along his bottom lip, a silent invitation, to which he happily obliges. She licks into his mouth and tastes his tongue. The taste is clawing at her, urging her to remember. He spins them around so she is pinned between him and the wall. She wraps both her arms around his neck, tangling in his hair, wanting to pull him in. The kiss has turned raw and desperate. And Belle can't help but think that perhaps this is the way it has to be.

They eventually break apart for air. His hand has hitched up her knee to rest against his hip and her fingers are clinging to the collar of his shirt.

He breathes her name in the small space between them. She smiles up at him. This was what she needed; some proof that what she'd seen in the photographs was actually there; that there was hope of it returning someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will probably be a while before I update again. School is going to get really busy and overwhelming in the upcoming months. Hope you have a great week!


	7. A Loss Revisited

"You look lovely."

She curtsies playfully. "Why, thank you, kind Sir."

She's dressed in a sleeve-less, dark blue dress, and a leather belt cinches the fabric around her waist. She'd found it at the back of her closet and had been momentarily impressed with the old her's sense of style. Rum had stood at the foot of the stairs, watching her descend, with an awed look on his face. An odd sliver of sadness had ghosted through her when she'd realized that Gaston had never looked at her like that. Not even on the eve of their prom.

She's meeting Snow and Ruby at the diner. Rum had been thrilled when she'd told him she was going out, like he was happy she was making up for lost time, even if it wasn't with him.

"Enjoy yourself, love," he says, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to her temple. She leans into it and closes her eyes. She's grown to like his touches and kisses and the affection behind them.

"Don't wait up. A handsome prince might show up and offer to take me for a ride."

"On what? His noble steed?" Rum smirks.

"Or his Nissan Cherry. I'm easy to please." She mimics his smile, and she looks beautiful and dangerous at the same time; like a woman who could steal your heart and hold it in her hand without even realizing it.

He chuckles. "And here I thought my girl had standards."

She stills as the words ' _my girl'_ sink in, and her teasing demeanour disappears. Because she might actually  _be_  his and she finds that terrifying and comforting at the same time. And this isn't all just a game to her. And she wants him to know this.

"She does," she says. She holds his gaze and the corners of her lips slip into a smile as she watches his eyes soften. But she doesn't hang around long enough for him to respond. Because then they might slip into territory Belle can't put words to, but she knows she isn't ready for. So she squeezes his shoulder and gives him a peck on the cheek before heading out the door.

* * *

They greet her with warm hugs and bright smiles, and Belle clings to the fabric of their beautiful blouses as she relishes in the feeling of  _As long as I have these two, I'll be alright._ Because she already feels like she's known Snow and Ruby for as long as they've known her. All the grey area in Belle's memory has been re-saturated with the colours of conversations and movies and food they may have experienced together before, but that all seem new to Belle. And if they are reliving things of the past, Ruby and Snow don't tell her.

They've already chosen a booth towards the back. Three glasses of beer - two half-full - sit and wait for them.

Ruby compliments her on her dress, although 'it would look even better a few inches shorter.' Snow merely rolls her eyes, reassuring her that she looks wonderful.

They're halfway through their meal before Snow asks "So, how have you been doing?"

Belle still doesn't like the question, despite being asked it regularly. Because she really doesn't know. She has settled into the life the old her had built for herself, but sometimes she still feels like she's trapped in a theatrical play where everyone knows her character but her, and she's frantically trying to remember her lines. That is, besides Ruby and Snow, and occasionally Rum. Ruby and Snow quickly realized that there was no point in trying to awaken the "Old Belle". They'd accepted that all they could do was make sure Belle felt safe and _happy_. And they haven't failed her yet.

"I'm good, I think… The house is slowly starting to feel more like home and I feel more comfortable around Rum."

"How  _are_  things with him, anyway?" Ruby asks, lowering her voice slightly, as if she's afraid of people overhearing. Belle had quickly gotten the impression that the people of Storybrooke were intimidated by Rum, but she can't for the life of her see why. She's seen him when his hair is tousled from sleep, and him posing in socks and a pair of plaid Bermuda shorts. She hadn't believed him when he'd claimed to own a pair. So of course the only way to prove her wrong was to stage a one-man fashion show in their living room. He'd made her draw the curtains beforehand.

"Fine, well, maybe even better than fine. He's been such a sweetheart through all this." Belle trails off and picks up her fork, fiddling with the mushrooms on her plate. "But sometimes he looks at me like he still misses me… or bits of me that aren't there anymore. And sometimes I feel like I'm letting him down."

"I'm sure he doesn't feel that way," Snow assures her, putting her hand over Belle's. "He's grateful to whatever power decided to keep you by his side. He loves you with all his heart, Belle. Everyone can see the way he feels about you."

"Archie claims he saw him skipping down the sidewalk one time after you'd met," Ruby adds, her eyes alight with humour. Belle bursts out a laugh, imagining Rum - who saunters everywhere he goes - walking with such a spring in his step.

"He's not making it hard for you, is he?" Snow asks, her thumb tracing reassuring circles on Belle's hand.

"No, no, of course not. If anything, he's made it easier." Once he stopped feeling that he had to constantly push and try in order for her to remember, he became a consoling presence; someone Belle could see herself perhaps falling in love with if given enough time.

Both Ruby and Snow smile in relief. "From what you've told us over the years, he's always been the person you rely the most on," Snow says, and for the first time Belle thinks that that is something she can imagine herself saying.

"Especially when your mother passed away," Ruby adds with a sympathetic smile.

And the world seems to stop for a split second, as if it stilled in order to listen in on the words that cannot possibly be true.

She must have misheard.

"What?" she asks, fisting the napkin in her lap; something to hold onto. She feels Snow's hand still.

Their smiles are gone in an instant. Ruby's eyes are wide and Snow's brow is furrowed. Several moments pass before Snow speaks.

"Has no one told you?"

Belle doesn't need to hear the actual words. Not that she would have been able to make them out anyway, what with the sudden ringing in her ears.

Her stomach drops. And she imagines she can remember the sound of her and her father's hearts breaking when her mother  _passed away._ Died. Left them behind.

"We thought you knew." Ruby's voice is small and her eyes are glassy.

Belle removes her hand from Snow's and shakes her head, furiously blinking back the tears that are blurring her vision. She doesn't know if they are tears of rage or grief. Rage that her father knew and  _he didn't tell her._  Grief that she's lost her mother all over again.

"He said she was on a business trip," she whispers.

"Oh, honey-"

Belle doesn't stay to hear the rest. She grabs her coat and heads for the door, Snow and Ruby's voices mingling with the sound of the bell violently ringing overhead as she throws open the door.

It's about a 25-minute walk from the diner to her father's house. All she'll remember from the journey is the taste of her tears and the mantra that haunted her in time with the beat of her hurried footsteps.

_She's dead. She's dead. He lied. They all lied._

* * *

She bangs until her knuckles are raw, hoping that maybe if she hits her father's front door hard enough, the whole house will crumble to a millions pieces, like her world seems to be doing right now.

The door is suddenly yanked open and Belle stumbles, her fist still raised. She's breathing hard, trying to force oxygen into her lungs through the knots that have formed in her throat. Moe's eyes widen as he registers the dishevelled state of his daughter.

"Belle? What's happened?"

He sounds so concerned, and she hates him for it.

"Where's mum?"

He blanches and it takes a while for a weak smile to appear.

"She's on a business trip, honey."

He's still lying. He still hasn't realized that the game's up; that his daughter's tears are for the loss of her mother.

"Don't lie to me. I'll ask one more time, and I want the truth. Where. The fuck. Is she?" She can't remember when she started swearing, or when she became so menacing. Perhaps it was something she picked up from Rum. Either way, in this moment, it's one of the things she loves about the Belle she's slowly become.

His smile disappears and tears well in his eyes. He looks so tired. And Belle doesn't care. She has to hear him say it, has to hear him apologize, even if she most likely won't forgive him tonight or tomorrow night.

"Who told you?" he murmurs.

"My  _friends_! Though they thought I already knew."

He sighs and rubs the palm of his hand down his face, trying to rub away the frail sadness that is threatening to make his voice shake. "I'm sorry, Belle. What was I supposed to do? You had enough to deal with without the loss of a parent. It was bad enough the first time."

She looks at him in disbelief and her gut churns. "For me this  _is_ the first time! You should've told me. How long was this business trip going to last, dad? Till I  _maybe_  one day regained my memories?"

His breath hitches and he hides his face in his hands, muffling his sobs. "I don't know, Belle… I don't know."

He looks nothing like the strong man she always thought her father was, and had she not been clutching her coat to her chest, too busy holding together what remained of her bruised heart, she might have consoled him.

The silence stretches until she finally asks: "How did she die?" She's almost afraid to ask; worried that she suffered, worried that she never saw it coming.

Moe takes a deep breath. "Aneurysm."

"Fuck," she whispers. She hastily wipes away her tears on the back of her hand. All the fight has left her, and now nothing but a gaping hole remains.

"Belle, why don't you come inside for a while?"

He reaches out to touch her and she hastily pulls away, shaking her head.

"No, no. I can't look at you right now."

She makes her way down the porch steps. She can't decide if she's disgusted with herself for being so cold, or proud that she's being what some might call 'strong'. Not that she feels strong. She feels frayed and tired and lost, so very, very lost. And if this is what 'strength' feels like, then she never wants to be weak.

But Moe can't leave it at that. As much as Belle loves her father, she has always detested his need to have the last word.

"What about that so-called husband of yours?" he calls out after her as she walks away. "Why didn't  _he_  tell you?"

She stops in her tracks and turns on her heel. Her eyes are dark with misery and the shadows of the encroaching night dance across her face. She looks fierce and intimidating. She looks powerful; like she'll one day be able to pick up the pieces her father has inadvertently scattered across the floor.

"It wasn't his responsibility. It should have been you," she says. "Coward," she adds under her breath.

She stalks down the driveway and follows the main road, hoping she'll figure out where she wants to be tonight on the way, leaving her father to stand on the threshold of his home and wonder when his daughter became someone he hardly recognizes.

* * *

Rum is brewing tea in the kitchen, waiting for Belle to return. They'd promised each other years ago that whenever one of them went out for an evening, the other would wait up until they came home. It usually ended with him falling asleep on the couch when it was his turn to wait, but he'd always hear her unlocking the front door, jump up off the couch to greet her, and make Belle chuckle when he swore he hadn't fallen asleep. Although Belle probably cannot remember, he's still keeping his promise.

He hears footsteps in the hall and the front door closing, and he instantly smiles, having missed Belle immensely even though she's only been gone for a few hours.

He means to greet her with a hug and a kiss as he makes his way into the hall, but stops dead in tracks when he sees her.

She's kicked off her shoes and is leaning against the wall; her head tilted back, her arms wrapped around herself, her body shaking, as silent sobs seem to rack through her. Her cheeks are stained dark where her makeup has been smudged. He's only seen her this broken once before.

"Belle, love. What happened?"

She doesn't answer. Her lips are moving, but he can't make out what she's saying. She thumps her head against the wall behind her and sinks down to the floor, her legs having decided they can't carry her heavy sorrow any longer. Rum rushes to her and kneels in front of her, a hand on each of her shoulders, pleading her to look at him.

It is only when he is this close that he can make out the words she keeps repeating over and over again.

"She's gone. She's gone."

Rum doesn't need to ask what's happened. He'd been waiting – dreading – this moment; the inevitable day he would have to watch his Belle suffer all over again. Just like last time, when he'd remained at Belle's side as they'd sat by her mother's deathbed, watching her lifeless form leave her daughter and husband behind.

Her heart had given into Death sometime during the night and Belle had been inconsolable. Even after years had passed, Rum knew she'd never truly forgiven herself that she wasn't awake until the very end. It had taken Rum some time before realizing that that was the reason Belle insisted they stay up until the other came home; because she couldn't bear to wake up and find that he'd been taken from her.

He pulls her to his chest, and she fists his shirt in her hand, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He kisses the top of her head, his voice muffled as he says 'I'm sorry' in time with her sobs.

He eventually scoops her up into his arms and carries them to the couch, letting her rest her head against his heart, that is promising with every beat never to stop while she's still around.

Her sobs quiet, and are soon nothing but hitches of breath.

And soon she goes still. Rum can still feel her tears as they dampen his shirt.

He runs his fingers through her hair and holds her hand.

He doesn't know how long they've been lying there when she finally speaks.

"You knew, didn't you?"

It's nothing but a whisper; all she can muster at the moment.

He takes a deep breath.

"Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He settles for the version of the truth that won't make her hate her father even more.

"The same reason your father didn't tell you. We can't bear to see you hurt."

To this she says nothing. She merely snuggles closer, her occasional sniffles breaking the silence.

She says nothing more the entire night. Not when he whispers that it's time for bed. Not when he lays her down on the guest bed. Not when he removes her stockings and tucks her in.

Nor does she say anything when she quietly opens his bedroom door two hours later. He just lifts up the duvet and waits for her to join him. He'll never deny her rest in the bed in which she used to belong.

She stops him from turning on his side, and inches closer, resting her head on the same spot on his chest where she'd lain most of the evening. He thinks he can hear her breathe the words 'thank you' as he wordlessly wraps his arms around her, praying that sleep will take her somewhere where mothers don't die and accidents don't happen to good people.


	8. Engagements and Arguments

The engagement party for Emma and Graham had been the talk of the town for the past few weeks. Not that Belle and Rum knew much about it, what with them rarely leaving the house. Belle didn't leave because she didn't feel the need to breathe some fresh air, or wear smiles around the people who cared about her outside their four walls, and Rum couldn't bear to leave her.

Belle hadn't been this lost the first time she was told her mother had passed away. She was stronger that time around, determined to pull her and her father out of the wreckage. Maybe it's the added weight of betrayal that makes it so hard for her. Maybe Belle just isn't the person she was before the accident; no matter how many times Rum thinks she's finally becoming who she once was.

Ruby and Snow manage to drag Belle out of the house eventually, wishing for her to help them plan the party. Rum is grateful for all they're doing for her, but they don't get to see the dullness that dominates Belle's gaze as she shoots him a weak, tired smile before heading upstairs to bed. He leaves a cup of tea and some food by her bedside every night, just in case.

Because he loves her, and he'll always help her find her way back.

But it's hard. God, it's hard sometimes.

Sometimes he can feel it when she gets agitated and defensive; the tension in the air around her. Then he knows that there's no use in trying to strike up conversation with her. Sometimes he walks in on her crying, her shoulders shaking and her face buried in her hands, trying to muffle her sobs. And sometimes she lets him hold her, and sometimes she pulls away. She seeks comfort in their sheets, but not in his arms. He thinks it's because one day, when he wasn't looking, she got over the initial shock of losing her mother and the resentment set in. Because he didn't tell her. Because her father didn't tell her. Because even she must know that she doesn't deserve this amount of tragedies.

But he's managed to convince her to go to the party with him. "Because it'll be good for you, for us. You're fading, love." She'd looked up at him, a dangerous mixture of hurt and wonder in her eyes, as if she was surprised at the state she was in, and angry that he'd pointed it out.

They stand arm in arm as he rings the doorbell to Emma's flat. Why they decided to host the party here is beyond him. Belle picks at the skirt of her dress, her mouth set in a neutral straight line, which is forced to hide behind a smile as Snow opens the door, a whirl of rose-coloured skirts.

"You came!" she says, beaming at the both of them. Rum can see the relief in her eyes. She probably hasn't seen the two of them together like this since before Belle spiralled into her depleted state.

Belle smiles and says she looks lovely.

Snow ushers them in, taking their coats. Belle glances back at him and says she's going to find Emma. And then she's gone.

He lets her leave and notices Snow's watching him in his peripheral vision.

"What?" he asks, regretting his clipped tone.

"How is she?" she asks. He doesn't miss the pleading look in her eyes, begging him to tell her the truth.

He can't help but sigh. "I really don't know. Some days she's fine, and some days I have trouble coaxing her out of bed. She's hurting, and it's partially my fault. And I don't know how to fix it."

Snow rests a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently. "You're doing everything you can. I'm sure she sees that."

"Well, she always had a way of seeing right through me."

Snow smiles wistfully, probably remembering how Belle had insisted that there was something in him worth loving, no matter what anyone said.

"So, where's the happy couple anyway?" he asks, willing the seriousness and truthfulness of the moment to dissipate.

Snow chuckles. "Well, find one and you'll find the other. They've been practically joined at the hip."

"Christ, I thought Emma would keep up the tough-girl act at least until she was standing at the altar."

"Love makes you do strange things," Snow says, her eyes finding Emma and Graham. Rum follows her gaze and sees them kiss each other gently; exchanging small Eskimo kisses before pulling away. Rum is both jealous and in awe. He is also in need to take the piss.

"I hope you have alcohol readily available if this is how they're going to act all night. I don't think I could take it if one them suddenly takes out a pair of handcuffs as props."

Snow looks mischievous for a moment and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "I think Leroy took some liberties when making the punch."

He smirks at her, gesturing for her to lead the way.

He barely sees Belle the rest of the evening. He catches glimpses of her, and sometimes she catches him watching her. She just smiles briefly at him before turning her attention to the person she's talking to. Even when she didn't know who he was, or who she was, he'd never felt this distant from her.

He'd forgotten how distance churns the stomach; how the ache of almost having someone – and being in the process of losing them - hurts more than not having them at all.

He's decided to leave Belle alone for the evening, and clutches his drink as he mingles with Storybrooke's finest. Most of them don't like him, and he doesn't like them. So he ends up standing next to David.

David seems to sense his unease eventually. "Are you alright?" He leans in, his eyes narrowing as he studies Rum's face. "I think your eye is twitching."

Rum shoves at his shoulder playfully, making David laugh.

"My eye is fine, thank you very much. The apple of it, on the other hand…" He trails off as he searches for Belle. He spots her in a corner, talking animatedly to a man whose back is turned to him.

David follows his gaze. "I thought you said she was getting better."

"She is," Rum assures him. He frowns. "But it's like the healing process has created more walls between us. She's on edge around me. It's like she's grown weary of me."

David doesn't say anything. He just puts his hand on his shoulder, the weight of it slightly comforting.

"She's come back to you twice now. What's to say this time is any different?" David tries for a smile.

Because this time I was the one who helped hurt her. Because I don't think she trusts me anymore.

"Maybe this time she finally saw me for what I truly am."

He hadn't meant to sound so cryptic.

"You mean the world to her, Rum. Don't let yourself forget that."

He looks up at David, grateful that he's willing to hang on to hope for the both of them. He catches someone entering the flat out of the corner of his eye. He watches as they enter the flat and his gaze hardens. His shoulders tense and David must feel the change in him.

"What?"

"What is he doing here?" Rum asks through clenched teeth.

"He and Emma have stayed in touch ever since she helped him catch that burglar that raided his house a few years back. She regularly checks in and he sends birthday and Christmas cards."

He takes one look at Rum's face and he sighs. "I guess Ruby forgot to tell you and Belle that he was coming."

"Yes, I guess so."

David's about to say something, but Rum is already walking away. He keeps himself in check as he makes his way over; the pace of his stride, the line of his mouth, his gaze that he knows must be a warning sign, given how the few who catch his expression quickly turn away, knowing when not to interfere.

"What the hell do you think you're doing here?"

Rum watches his back as he stills, his glass of beer stopping halfway to his lips. He turns and quirks the corner of his mouth into a half-amused smile. He almost doesn't look the least bit frightened. Almost.

"I came to offer my congratulations. Isn't that why we're all here?" Moe gestures to the room in a sweeping motion. His voice is too loud, his presence too intrusive, too tangible. Belle will see him, and Rum knows she's gone out of her way to not see him.

"You need to leave. Now." Rum goes to grab his shoulder, but Moe twists out of his grasp.

"Who do you think you are?"

Rum thinks he can hear a slight slur to his words, but chooses not to address it. The last thing he needs is Moe drawing more attention to himself, swearing on a dead relative's grave that he is most definitely "not even a little bit tipsy."

Moe is about to turn and leave, but Rum grabs his arm again, this time getting a firm grip. "I am Belle's husband and I want to protect her. She doesn't want to see you right now. You. Need. To. Leave." His voice has become rougher, hushed and slightly unsettling. He's hardly spoken to anyone like this since he met Belle. But for Moe he's willing to make an exception.

"Protect her? You?! You're the reason she stayed in this no-horse town! There were opportunities waiting for her, you know. Better things than you and what you had to offer."

And oh, this is a conversation they've had before. Usually not voiced, but more through cold stares across dinner tables during rare family get-togethers. But Rum still got the gist. Every time.

And he's raising his voice again, so Rum tightens his hold and finds joy in Moe's tiny whimper. He leans in, their noses mere inches apart as he snarls.

"Get. Out."

Moe's eyes narrow, and he glances over Rum's shoulder. Whatever he sees makes his angry expression disappear, and is replaced by a self-satisfied smirk. Rum follows his gaze and sees Belle talking to a man across the room. Her eyes are bright and attentive to the man, and her smile… Rum hasn't seen her smile like that since before the accident. And here he is standing on the sidelines. And something inside him withers.

The man laughs and Rum catches a glimpse of his profile; the Roman nose, the full bottom lip and soft jaw. The profile of the man who broke Belle's heart. Gaston.

Rum feels his irritation morph into full-fledged anger.

"And what the fuckis he doing here?"

He hears Moe chuckle behind him. "Looks like I'm not the only one she's avoiding."

Rum releases his grip on his arm with a shove and stalks towards them.

They need to leave. Rum doesn't want her bumping into Moe and he most definitely doesn't want her mingling with the lowlife that is her high school sweetheart.

Belle spots him heading towards them and stops mid-sentence. Luckily Moe has moved to the other side of the room and is no longer standing behind him. Her smile falters and Rum thinks it's because she must know what's going through his mind at the moment. After all, she knows him better than anyone, sometimes even himself. Though, on second thought he hopes she doesn't know. He doesn't think her knowing that he's entertaining the various ways he can inflict pain on the ex-jock will help mend any rifts between them.

Gaston looks over his shoulder and now they are both watching him as he comes closer. He wishes he knew how to keep his cool, how to keep his blood from boiling, how to not let Moe's words aggravate him, how to not feel threatened by fragments of Belle's past that he deems harmful; harmful to him, Belle, or the both of them.

He knows that now he might end up being the version of himself that he hates that Belle sometimes gets to see. She always made him better. And he welcomed the change she brought out in him. Even he can see what she does to him, who she inspires him to become.

And this is why he never wants to lose her. This is why he will always protect her.

And that is why he has to get her out of here right now.

"Evening, Belle," he greets, not even sparing Gaston a glance.

"Evening," she says, sounding a little uncertain. Her brow furrows. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, yes, everything's fine," – his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes – "but I'm afraid we have to leave."

"Leave? But we only just got here! I haven't even gotten a proper chance to talk to Ruby."

"You'll see her tomorrow. We really should get going." He gestures to the door.

Belle's gaze hardens and he's seen that look before. She won't budge now.

"You can leave. I finally got out of the house, and I don't want to go back yet."

"Please, love. Just trust me." He reaches for her hand, trying to lace his fingers through hers. But she pulls away and Gaston puts an arm across his chest, serving as a barrier. Rum looks up at him like he's finally noticing him, and shoots him a look of contempt. "Move your hand, dearie."

"She said she doesn't want to leave." With you. "Do yourself a favour and go."

Rum pushes his arm out of the way. "No chance in hell."

"Enough!" Belle hisses. "Rum, go. I'll come home when I'm ready."

And it must be the small piece of him that panics at the thought that maybe she'll never be ready to come home to him, or perhaps it is just Gaston's smug smirk that is begging to be removed by force, that makes Rum punch him in the face. Pain sparks through his knuckles and up his wrist, and it only seems to intensify when Rum tries to shake it off. But the look of confusion on Gaston's face and the small drop of blood that appears from his right nostril makes it all worth it.

Belle's eyes widen in horror and Rum thinks the silence that follows must be the universe trying to torture him; making sure there are no other distractions when he sees Belle's look of disbelief and disgust and then anger. But he soon realizes that the silence stems from the fact that all eyes are on them.

Belle's accent thickens as she speaks, her voice shaking slightly with rage. "Outside. Now."

Their footsteps echo slightly as they make their way to the front door. Belle is close behind him and he hears her apologize before closing the door swiftly behind them. He rubs a hand down his face, the anger having faded. Now he's just weary and acutely aware of how he's just made things between them even worse.

He eventually dares to look at her and sees her leaning against the wall, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes burning. She's furious.

"What the fuck was that?!" she demands.

And in truth, he isn't entirely sure himself.

I just want to protect you. From your father.

I don't want to see you get hurt.

I let jealousy get the best of me.

None of these are good enough. Not for Belle.

So instead he simply sighs and shakes his head. "I don't know. I don't know."

"I can tell you what it looked like," she says, pushing herself off the wall. "It looked like you attacking a man unprovoked."

He can't help but snort, then immediately wishes he hadn't.

Her eyes narrow. "Is something funny?"

"Just your choice of words."

He can feel it: the need to defend and deflect. It's a need that has made the few serious fights they've had over the years more difficult and heart breaking than they'd needed to be. He has a hard time admitting when he's wrong, at least before he's had time to cool off. Belle knows this, or at least, the old her does.

"Alright, well, what would you call what just happened?"

"I was trying to protect you!" And now his voice is getting louder and his hand is aching and his heart is screaming at him to just kiss her. Say he loves her. Do something. Anything is better than the wreckage that is about to unfold.

"Protect me?" she repeats incredulously. "From what? Gaston? He's harmless."

"Harmless?" he scoffs. "You don't know what he did to you! What he put you through."

"No, I don't. And I'm assuming this is also something you've kept from me for my own good. But I can see you're just dying to tell me now, so spit it out."

"He broke your heart!"

"He's not the only one!"

And at this he stops. And she stops. And the world seems to stop, and allows him to see the damage he is doing. His temper dissipates and he's left with an aching in his chest that he suspects is his heart telling him it's had enough.

"I was trying to protect you from your father," he murmurs, his eyes watching his hand as he flexes his fingers.

"My father?" Her voice has also lost its anger, but it's still coming out clearer than his. She always was the stronger one.

"He came tonight and I didn't want him approaching you until you were ready."

"'Until I was ready'? Who are you to decide when I'm ready?" She may no longer be furious, but there's heat bubbling beneath the surface. He can hear it.

"Come on, Belle, you've been avoiding him for weeks! I see how broken you are. And I didn't want him to make it worse."

That was apparently the wrong thing to say.

"Broken? How dare you? I've been trying to put my life back together. You don't even know me."

"Sweetheart, of course I know you." He reaches for her, wanting to wipe away the tears that are welling up in her eyes, but she holds her hands up, palms out, urging him to keep his distance.

"No. You knew the old me. I'm different now." She turns her face away and quickly wipes away the tears that have spilled over. She slowly sits down on the top step of the hall staircase. He stands still for a moment, trying to translate the set of her shoulders to see if it's okay for him to sit beside her. He takes a chance and sinks down next to her, their knees brushing. She doesn't move her leg or look up at him.

Maybe that's a good thing, as her resolve would have surely faltered if she'd seen the look on his face as she says after a few moments of silence: "I think we should take a break."

Rum blanches and the world dissolves into nothing but the warmth of her skin against his knee, and he doesn't think about all the mistakes he's made or all the times he could've been better. All he's thinking is It's over. It's over. She's done. They're sitting so close – closer than they've been in days – and he's lost her. And it hurts like hell.

He's almost too scared to ask. "What do you mean by 'a break'?"

She's still not looking at him. "Divorce," she whispers.

He'd been wrong. This hurts far more.

He doesn't say anything. He doubts he'll be able to get anything out past the lump in his throat.

"I just think I threw myself into the unknown too quickly. I tried to live the life of someone I don't know properly or fully understand. I need there to be no doubts about who I am and what I want before I… continue."

"Continue what?" he asks quietly, though he's fairly sure he already knows the answer.

She takes a deep breath. "Being with you."

She finally glances up at him from beneath her lashes, and she looks at him like the day she suggested they move in together; so innocent and unsure and breath-taking.

"But divorce is so final, Belle." He gently puts his hand on her knee. She doesn't say anything. "I'll give you all the space you need. We don't have to have meals together. Hell, we can take turns using the living room!" His chuckle sounds false to his own ears. His vision blurs with unshed tears and he lets himself get closer; close enough to rest his forehead against hers. "Just please don't leave me. Please."

His last plea is just a ghost of a breath against her face. He hears her swallow and she runs her knuckles across his cheek briefly before pulling away.

"I have to," she whispers. She removes his hand from her knee and stands up. He stares up at her, wide eyed, watching as she brushes off her dress and heads for Emma's flat.

"Wait, Belle!"

She stops with her hand on the doorknob.

"What about..?" he trails off, nodding towards the closed door.

"I'll deal with him. I'm a grown woman, Rum. I can protect myself."

He isn't sure whom she's talking about, Gaston or her father, but she's still right. She never needed his protection. He needed her to protect him from himself.

He's about to tell her this, but she's already opened the door and stepped over the threshold. She closes the door behind her, and now there's an actual wall between them.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

So much for her finding her way back to him.


	9. To Try and To Leave

She didn't come home that night. Or the night after. It wasn't until he finally asked Snow where she'd gone that he found out she was staying at Ruby's. It was after numerous calls that directed him to her voicemail that he resigned himself to keeping his distance. She'd said she needed her space, and he was – if anything – a patient man. He'd wait for her. He'd always wait for her.

But the weight of waiting became significantly heavier the day he came home from work and found about a third of her closet missing, as well as her toiletries. That's how she disappeared from his life; slowly, one piece at a time. A pair of shoes one day and a keepsake from the shelf she must have remembered caring for the next. He'd come home and find the place a tiny bit emptier than he'd left it.

And every time Belle removed a part of herself from their home, his heart shattered a little bit more.

Occasionally he'd find notes stuck to the fridge or on the coffee table.

_I watered the plants._

_I took the Zafón books. Hope that's alright. Let me know if you'd prefer to keep them._

Never did she write the words he wanted to desperately to hear; that she'd be back soon; that she'd changed her mind. Nor did he leave notes for her, begging her to stay. Notes change nothing.

It is his splitting headache, induced from too much caffeine and not enough sleep, that forces him to close up shop early and go home. Not that he finds much comfort there anymore, not when it's slowly turning into just  _his_ , instead of  _theirs._

He trudges up the porch steps and opens the door, flinging his coat on the banister and loosening his tie. It takes him a few moments to realize that he's not alone, that there are sounds coming from somewhere in the house. He'd grown used to coming home to the eerie silence. Now the shuffling of papers and muffled thumps seem loud, familiar.

His breath hitches at the thought that maybe it's her.

_She's home._

He locates the sound and rushes to the living room, her name on his tongue and halfway passed his lips by the time he reaches the room.

She's packing up her desk. She seems to have sorted through all her short stories and drabbles and printed words and is putting them into a folder. There's a box on the floor labelled books. She's left the framed note he wrote her on the wall.

This isn't how he wanted to find her. Now it's too real, and for a moment he's grateful that she has spared him the sight of her packing up. And then he's angry that she's leaving at all.

"Rum, I didn't think you'd be home so soon." She smiles faintly at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes and her hand is shaking ever so slightly as she puts the last of the papers in the folder on the desk.

"Headache," he says, gesturing to his temple. "One would think you'd gotten so good at dodging me that you would've seen it coming and not showed up today." He sounds as pissed off as he feels. And he's glad.

She sighs. "I didn't come when you were home because I knew you'd be like this."

He steps closer. "Like what, Belle? Not over the moon? Hurt?" He lowers his voice and practically hisses, "testy?"

"Unreasonable," she says. He recognizes the spark in her eyes, the light that flares to life when they argue. Belle has always been passionate. Before they'd yell and let the frustration fill the air between them, before making their marks on each other between sweaty sheets. Somehow, Rum doesn't think that strategy is going to work this time.

"Unreasonable?" he repeats incredulously. " _I'm_ being unreasonable?" He laughs, but it doesn't come out right and there's a hint of mania. "You're leaving, Belle!" He's shouting now, and he's not sure if he's shouting at her, himself because somewhere down the line he must have fucked things up, or at the universe for bringing them to this point: her packing up her things and him about to lose the only person that ever truly mattered.

"I've tried, Belle! I've  _fucking_  tried. I've done everything I could to make sure you were comfortable, that you were happy. And now you're just giving up!"

Her expression hardens. "Giving up? You think I'm giving up?"

"That's what it bloody well looks like to me."

"I need this, Rum. I need to figure out what I want. Can't you just let me do this, for my sake?"

"Can't you just stay, for my sake?" he fires back, his voice hard and slightly mocking.

She doesn't say anything. She just finishes organizing her papers and puts the box on the floor. He can see she wants to say something. He doesn't have to wait long before she takes a deep breath and says, "It's been hard for me too, you know. The way you acted at Emma and Graham's party was…" She trails off, and even though some of her anger seems to have dissipated, it doesn't mean that his has.

"What?"

"Uncalled for."

"Is that what this is about? You're leaving because I punched your scum of an ex-boyfriend?"

"Don't call him that."

He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. "You're  _defending_ him?"

"He never did anything to you."

"No, maybe not to me. But to someone I care about." He's now standing by the desk and Belle is close enough to pull into an embrace. But he doesn't.

Belle closes her eyes and sighs, catching his meaning. She can't remember the heartache Gaston had brought about. And she can't remember the night they'd curled up on the couch, too much wine in their blood, her head on his chest, as she'd put words to the hurt of being cheated on, of what it felt like to question yourself, thinking that if you'd done something, something different or  _more_ , then maybe things would've turned out right.

But he loves her too much to remind her.

His anger fizzles and depletes to nothing but a feeling or encroaching emptiness. Much like how he'd felt before he'd met Belle.

"I'm not going back to him, Rum," she says softly.

"Doesn't make it hurt any less," he whispers.

"I'm not giving up. I'm rethinking things. That's all."

And then she kisses him softly on the forehead before pulling away. And all that does is make it worse.

She rummages around in one of the boxes and draws out a manila envelope. She leaves it on the desk along with her key. She picks up the boxes and heads for the door. Rum doesn't – can't – watch her go, but her hears her steps falter to a stop.

"I won't say goodbye, okay? This isn't goodbye."

He just stares at the key on the desk, his hands shaking at his sides as he waits for her to leave, or come back. He doesn't move until he hears the front door close softly behind her. The shaking travels from his hands to his shoulders and there's a pressing in his chest that is making it hard to breathe.

He slowly reaches for the envelope, drawing out the papers declaring that their life together is officially over. His eyes skim over the words, not registering any of them, except the name that is scrawled in blue ink along one of dotted lines at the bottom of the page.

He can't remember picking up the typewriter that she left behind, or the sound that it made as it hit the wooden floor. One minute he's standing still and the next it's on the floor, keys missing and bent, the platen rolling away from the wreckage, and several dents along the sides. He just remembers sliding into the desk chair and looking at the broken typewriter and her key, and the unbearable weight in his chest slowly dissolving into quiet sobs.

* * *

She has to pull over halfway there. She searches for somewhere she can park and not meet anyone. She settles for the harbour. Her car faces the ocean and her hands grip the steering wheel till her knuckles turn white. She rests her forehead against the wheel and wills herself to take deep breaths, to breathe through the tightness in her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut when her vision blurs from unshed tears.

Doing the right thing – being brave – shouldn't feel like this. It isn't liberating or promising. It's scary and lonely when you're sitting alone in a car full of boxes. The look on Rum's face won't go away. She can't breathe properly. The car is too small. She wrenches off her seatbelt and stumbles out of the car, and the sea breeze hits her. She inhales it, lets it cleanse her.

Then she notices the gold band on her ring finger.

"Shit." She'd meant to give it back to him along with the key, but she'd had to get out of there, while she'd still had the courage to leave.

She slips it off and fiddles with it. She watches the ocean and for a moment she thinks what a great hiding place the bottomless deep must be. She clasps the ring in her hand and draws her arm back. And she almost lets go. Almost.

She'd said herself that this wasn't a goodbye, and leaving her wedding ring in the hands of the ruthless ocean seems too final, in spite of everything. So instead she pockets it, willing to acknowledge that one day it might fit her like it used to.

* * *

She returns to her job at the library. It's the first time she's faced with a place the old Belle occupied that she can slide into effortlessly. Gaston stops by a few days after she's started, asking if she's interested in having dinner with him. But it just doesn't feel right, and not just because of what Rum said about him, or because she'd promised nothing would happen. Something churns in her stomach, and she thinks it might be trepidation and some common sense. So she declines, saying she needs to be alone for a while, and she's relieved when he doesn't push it.

Her new apartment is impersonal and sterile. Her boxes are stacked in the middle of what will be the living room. The only other time she can remember having to unpack by herself was when she'd left home at nineteen. She wonders if she'd felt as out of place when she and Rum had moved in together, faced with heavy boxes and the echoes that resound in empty rooms.

She'd declined staying with Ruby or Snow. She hadn't wanted to feel like she was imposing and she'd convinced herself that the newness, the uncertainty, would do her some good. This is a place where the new her – the Belle that isn't defined by accidents and marriage and past heartbreak – could maybe decide what she wanted and where she belonged.

Maybe.

It takes two whole afternoons to unpack all the boxes. Her bed is just a mattress for now and the books on her shelves are scarce, but it's  _hers_. She buys a rug and throw pillows for the couch and slowly it turns into a place she doesn't dread coming home to. It doesn't remind her of things she can't remember. And it's only occasionally that the darkness reminds her that she misses falling asleep in the arms of someone dear.


	10. A Bad Idea

_One month later_

He's lying on the couch in the backroom of the shop, waiting until it's late enough for him to go home and then go straight to bed. His jacket is draped haphazardly over a nearby chair and his tie is on the floor. He'd flipped the "Closed" sign a while ago and turned out the lights. Now only a faint glow can be seen from outside the shop window.

It's been like this for a while now. He'd realized pretty quickly that he hated being in that house alone, so this is what he's reduced to: a pathetic man too terrified of silence and loneliness to go home.

He'd thought about calling her many times, but if he just waited a few minutes, he managed to persuade himself it was a bad idea every time. Except that one evening cheap wine had made him too bold for his own good and he'd left her a message on her answering machine. He'd talked about the week his thoughts had been consumed with dying and the fear of not knowing what would happen the inevitable day he closed his eyes for the last time, and how she'd held his hand every night, saying that whatever it is, it must be pretty amazing, since we're all dying to see what it is. He knew she'd meant it as a joke, but it had truly made him feel better. He'd told her that that was the moment he knew he'd found something truly wonderful, something worth cheating death for.

And then he'd woken with a pounding head and a feeling that he'd done something stupid. He'd cursed himself and whoever thought a '2 for 1' deal on wine was a good idea, and was set on calling to apologize before he'd gotten side tracked by his stomach and its need to empty its contents.

Thankfully she'd never called back.

His gaze is distant as he lets tiredness and weariness overcome him when the bell over the door rings. He doesn't bother getting up. "Shop's closed!"

Snow peeks her head through the backroom door, a small smile on her lips. He'd be lying if he said his stomach didn't feel a little more hollow at the look of pity in her eyes.

"David said I might find you here," she says.

Of course. He hadn't missed the way David kept looking more and more worried every time he'd stop by to make sure Rum hadn't done anything stupid. He must be in a sorry state if David has sent his wife to check up on him.

He can't think of anything to say, be it an excuse as to why he's here after hours, or that he was just taking a nap and most definitely  _not wallowing._ Snow sits herself down on the chair closest to him, her elbows resting on her knees, a slight furrow between her brows; proof that she actually cares.

"You're withering away, Rum," she says gently.

He closes his eyes and sighs, because that's exactly what's happening to him, what he knew would happen. He just doesn't want to hear it said aloud. But he's too bone tired to come up with a snarky retort, so instead he murmurs, "This is how she wants things to be."

"That is not true and you know it. She wants you to be happy, too, Rum."

He knows she's right, and he doesn't blame Belle for the state he's in. This is just what being without Belle feels like. And that's not her fault.

He presses his lips together, but he can't help but ask," How is she?"

Snow sighs and leans back in her chair. "She's putting on a brave face, or at least trying to, pretending that everything's okay. But she's lonely and she isn't sure how to do something about it."

He sits up. "If she's lonely she should just come home!"

"You know that's not what she wants."

"It's what she would've wanted if she would just  _remember_!"

The silence is pressing as they stare at each other, his gaze bloodshot and hers determined.

"I…" His voice is too thick, too vulnerable, and he clears his throat before saying, "I don't blame her, but I just… I j-just…" He draws a shay breath and buries his face in his hands, the hollowness in his stomach now pushing itself up his throat and out as quiet sounds of sadness.

He feels the couch dip as Snow comes to sit beside him, and he feels the warmth of her hand rub soothing circles on his back.

"I just miss her," he says into the skin of his palms, but Snow still manages to make out his words.

"I know, I know," Snow repeats, her voice soothing and reassuring.

Her hand eventually stills, but her touch still remains, and he's grateful that she's here. Grateful for the small patch of warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, grateful for her understanding.

"Have you considered visiting her?"

His hands fall away from his face and rest in the space between his legs, his elbows on his knees. He's treated Belle's desire to live alone as a restraining order, and he's barely caught a glimpse of her since she's moved out, avoiding the library and Granny's altogether.

"Do you think she would want that?"

"I think she needs to be reminded that one can be alone without being lonely. And I think you're the who can do just that."

* * *

"This is a bad idea. This is a really,  _really_ , bad idea," he mutters under his breath. He's standing outside apartment 2E, a potted plant in one hand and a small, old-fashioned suitcase in the other. He hadn't planned on going, but somewhere during the night he'd managed to convince himself that anything was better than missing her so incessantly.

His knock is hesitant and awkward as he struggles to hold the plant and suitcase in one hand. He hears the muffled sounds of footsteps nearing the door, and before he gets a chance to turn on his heel and make a dash for the stairs, the door opens.

She's exactly as he remembered. Her eyes are bright and her hair is done up, only a few tendrils framing her face. Her smile is bright, and she looks surprised when she sees who's come a-knocking.

"Rum," she says, almost like she's glad to see him.

"Hello, Belle."

She opens the door further, but her outstretched arm in still holding the door. She hasn't let him in yet. "What are you doing here?"

"Just wanted to check in, and drop off a late house-warming gift," he says lightly, raising his occupied hands.

"Oh." Her smile widens and he notices how she relaxes, her shoulders lowering slightly. "Come in."

He surveys what she now calls her home. Large windows let in a dazzling amount of light. The couch is littered with pillows and throws. There are rugs on the floor, and a bookcase that's half-full. And in the corner by the window is a desk, already littered with papers and empty mugs. In the centre sits a laptop, and he can see that a document's open on the screen. Belle used to prefer the typewriter. She liked how final the words on the page became, when the ink left a print as soon as she pressed a key. It helped her make every word count.

This must be part of the new Belle, the Belle that is no longer his wife. And that's okay.

"It's not exactly fit for a princess, but…" She trails off. He turns and sees her standing in the middle of the living room-come-kitchen and she looks like she belongs. "I think I like it here." She bites her lower lip, looking hesitant. She needs for him to say that this is okay, that it's alright that she's managed to create a space that's just hers. And he has never been able to deny her anything.

"It's lovely," he reassures her.

A few moments pass in silence, before Belle offers to take the potted plant. Fuchsias, one of her favourites. She puts it on her desk, fingering the delicate flowers, thanking him. Then she gestures to the suitcase he's still holding. "Shall I…?"

He remembers himself and places it on the kitchen counter. He opens it and reveals a delicate looking tea set, the china white with blue and gold details.

"Every proper lady needs a proper tea set," he quips.

"Who on Earth said I was a 'proper lady'?" she teases, and his breath catches.

_He laughs. "A proper lady knows the street is no place to be this late at night," he retorts, the tips of his shoes dangling off the sidewalk._

_She looks at him and raises an eyebrow._

_"Who on Earth said I was a 'proper lady'?"_

She has never seemed more like the woman he lost that fateful evening. And even though she's changed, there are still bits of her that have lingered. She's still in there. He still loves her, and maybe those bits still love him back. Or maybe they will again one day.

Her smile slips and she looks concerned. "Rum? Are you alright?"

He shakes his head minutely to clear his mind of images of Belle sailing over the hood of a car. He hopes his smile isn't as strained as it feels. "Yes, fine dear."

"Would you like something to drink?" she offers, always kind, always caring.

"Water will do fine."

She snorts. "I'll put on some tea."

He chuckles and meanders around the room. He keeps glancing back at the laptop screen. "Have you started writing again?" he asks.

Her back is turned to him as she fiddles with mugs and tea bags. "Yeah. It took a while, but one day I just woke up and felt like it wasn't so hard anymore. Like there was something to tell."

She's found her inspiration again, and he's grateful to whatever or whoever helped her find it, even if it wasn't him.

"Anything spectacular?" he asks, accepting the steaming mug she hands him. They plop down on the couch, almost thigh to thigh.

"Not really. Maybe I'll let you read it someday." She watches him out of the corner of her eye, and she can't possibly miss the way his smile becomes more relieved, his eyes alight with joy and relief at how  _easy_  this is, just being together.

"I'd like that," he says, hiding his grin in his mug.

* * *

He leaves when it's dark outside. They swapped their mugs for wine glasses hours ago and it loosened their tongues. They found themselves in a comfortable state where they could talk and laugh without feeling stifled by thinking that they should behave like married couple; that Belle should feel like his wife. And if Rum wishes he could kiss and lick at the soft stain on her lips from the wine, he doesn't say. But before he leaves, he can't help but ask.

"Belle, you're happy, right?"

And the selfish part of him likes to think that the pause between his question and her answer is hesitation.

"Yeah."

But the part that loves Belle more than anything is thrilled that she's doing okay. So he returns her smile and says that if she ever needs anything, she mustn't hesitate to ask.

She thanks him. And then she leans in to press her lips softly to his cheek. It's quick and fleeting and over almost before it's begun, but it's more than enough.

"Goodnight, Rum."

"Goodnight, love," he says softly.

He doesn't let the spring enter his step until he's rounded the corner and is heading down the stairs. He takes the last two steps in one joyous leap.

* * *

She caresses the spine gently, her fingers trailing over the engraved title, as she puts it back in its designated spot on the shelf amongst the others. The library is quiet; only the occasional rustling of pages turning can be heard together with the muted sounds of her heels on the carpet as she wanders around, dusting and sorting books.

It has turned into a regular thing, whatever she and Rum are doing. He'll come over and bring chocolate or a take-away dinner and she'll supply the wine. It's innocent and easy and every night she's sad to see him go. She'll go to bed and have dreams of asking him to stay, of him joining her among the covers, not as the man she can't remember agreeing to spend the rest of her life with, but as the man who saved her when she was lost. The man that still looks at her lovingly despite them not living under the same roof.

The sound of the bell at the front desk rings out, pulling her out of her reverie. She turns and sees Gaston leaning on the desk, smiling shyly.

"Hey," he greets.

"Hi, Gaston. I-I'm sorry, but I can't make dinner. I-"

He raises a hand. "I'm not here to ask you to dinner, Belle. I'm here to say goodbye."

She stills and her brows knit together in confusion.

"Goodbye? You're leaving?"

"Got a job offer in New York. Big firm, big opportunities, you know how it is."

She nods, but she really doesn't. She never wanted to be a part of that cutthroat world, and she still doesn't see the appeal.

"When are you leaving?" she asks.

"Flight leaves tomorrow. So I just wanted to stop by, wish you luck and all that. And I guess a small part of me was hoping for one drink, for old time sakes." He isn't trying to make her feel guilty, or pressure her into joining him. It's just how Gaston is, how he was when she first met him.

"Gaston, I can't, you know that. We've changed-"

"Belle, it's alright." He smiles. "I wasn't expecting anything. You've changed. I see that. I see the way you look at him," he adds with a wink.

"We're not together anymore," she says, her hands idly fiddling with the pages of an open book on the desk.

He lowers his voice, and he almost sounds concerned. "Do you honestly believe that?"

She looks up and there must be something in her eyes that answers his question, because he chuckles and shakes his head.

She sighs. "Is it meant to be this hard, finding and holding onto love and all that shit?"

He laughs. "Easy on the swearing. This is a library, for Christ sake," he jokes. "But, honestly? Yes."

"And we do it because it's worth it, right?"

"Sounds like you've cracked the code," he quips.

She chuckles and a few beats pass before the amusement in Gaston's eyes fades into something more serious. "I wish you the very best, Belle. I always have, even when I wasn't able to give you the best."

She doesn't ask what he's actually referring to, partly because she doesn't want to feel the hurt all over again, and also because she's not interested in living in the past. And that's where Gaston belongs: in the past. And she knows she has to keep looking ahead, or else she'll be bested by misery.

So she extends her hand and raises her eyes expectantly when he stares at it for a few seconds.

"Is this when we part ways as unlikely friends?" he asks, taking her hand in his.

"Something like that," she smiles. "I wish you luck, with everything."

He presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles before letting go. "And I hope you find the very best."

He leaves with a raised hand and a smile.

"I'll leave a spot open for you at the firm when you grow tired of this place!" he calls over his shoulder.

"Keep dreaming, sailor!" she calls after him, earning her a few dirty looks from the people trying to read in peace.

Her mind is quieter when she lies in bed that night. She feels like a weight she wasn't aware of has been lifted from her chest. She said goodbye to the last tangible trace of her past today. And she's actually a little relieved. And a little hopeful, something she hasn't felt in a long time.


	11. All Great Things

As with all great things, it happens when she least expects it. She'd placed her books on the floor to dust the bookshelves and is now in the process of putting them back. She likes to think that she can move large piles of books in one go, but finds herself proven wrong when the stack she is carrying wobbles and a few books from the top fall to the floor.

She heaves the books she managed to hang onto on the coffee table and bends down to retrieve the books that fell. One of the more battered novels landed open, face-down:  _Emma_  by Jane Austen. The gold inscription has faded and the pages are worn. She can't remember it's from all the times she's thumbed through it, all the times she's fallen asleep with it in her lap. She notices a piece of paper sticking out from between the pages. The paper looks even more loved than the pages of the book. She unfolds it gently and a subconscious part of her recognizes the handwriting.

_Dear Belle,_

_These superstitious towns-folk think it's bad luck for the groom to see the bride before the wedding, but I managed to convince David to give this note to you._

Her breath catches in her throat and she sits down on the couch. Apparently this was the one memory of her marriage she'd forgotten to leave behind.

 _I guess I just wanted to say I love you once more before you go to sleep. (And that I hope your feet aren't getting chilly.) And I just want to thank you, for being you, for seeing something in me that must be worth hanging on to, for making me want to_ try _. You make me want to be the best version of myself, a version that I'm sorry not many have gotten to see over the years. I guess somewhere along the line you made me see that it's okay to be vulnerable, to open up, and that's it's okay to be scared while doing so. And you showed me that overcoming that fear is worthwhile._

_You make me brave, Belle. And you make me strong. And you're my home._

_You once asked me how I knew, how I could be so sure that I'd found 'the one'. And sometimes I think I can pinpoint the exact moment I knew, and other times I think this sense of clarity I've found since meeting you crept up on me slowly, and that suddenly I just knew. One day I woke up and it seemed absurd to think I'd ever be happy with anyone else._

_It still seems absurd to me._

_For there'll never be another like you, Belle. A kindness and grace and warmth like yours can't possibly exist in another human being. And I know it's a little early for making vows, but I promise to cherish and protect what makes you you with all my heart. It's the least I can do. After all, you fell in love with a man like me._

_I warned you early on that I'm not a very eloquent man, but I hope some of what I'm trying to say has come across._

_And if not, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you understand._

_Love always,_

_Rum._

The last few sentences become a blur as she struggles to blink away the tears. Now she sees, more clearly than ever before, the man she let down by forgetting.  _This_ is the Rum she must have fallen in love with, the Rum she finds herself falling in love with all over again.

The note doesn't feel like another fragment she'd prefer to dispose of, but rather the words that Rum must have felt unable to say to her now, after the accident, after she left him.

She's overcome by a wave of sadness and she clutches the note to her chest, her shoulders shaking from the effort of stifling her sobs. Eventually she quietens and wipes away the wetness from her cheeks. She draws a shaky breath and folds the note up.

She can't let this go, not when this could turn into something. And it could be beautiful or devastating, either way she has to try. She has to be the brave person Rum thinks she is, that she knows she can be. And she has to see him. She throws on a coat and puts the folded note in the inside pocket, close to her heart.

* * *

He's sitting with his feet propped up on the living room table, wondering if it's too early to just go to bed, when there's a loud knock at the door. The knocks are short and quick, frantic sounding.

And behind the door stands the last person he'd expect to see, but the person he's been hoping would show up on his doorstep for the past two months.

Belle's cheeks are flushed and she's heaving for breath. Her eyes are bright and she's clutching a piece of paper in her hand. She looks like she ran all the way here.

"Belle? Are you alright?" he asks immediately.

She nods as she regains her breath. "I'm fine. I just… I just came because I wanted to ask you something."

"Oh. Well, would you like to come inside?" He opens the door wider, gesturing for her to come in, but she just shakes her head.

"No, no, here's fine. I was just wondering." She holds up the piece of paper. "Did you really mean this?"

He leans in and recognizes his handwriting along with words he wrote many years ago, the night before he was to marry the love of his life.

Shit. She must have just found it. No wonder she seems so distraught.

He hates himself for it, but there are a few seconds where he seriously contemplates saying 'no'. Because for those few delusional seconds, he thinks that Belle may be better off without him. But he can't bring himself to lie to her and himself. And he can't bring himself to watch her leave here without knowing that nothing has changed, not when she's looking expectantly at him, like she knows the answer and just wants to hear it from his lips.

"It's one of the few things I still know to be true," he says at last.

The tense air around her leaves her instantly. Her shoulders drop and she releases a breath in a whoosh. Her lips stretch into a breath-taking smile. "I was hoping you'd say that."

And then she quickly closes the distance between them and captures his lips with hers, swallowing his words and stealing his breath. She wraps her arms around his neck tightly and his arms wind around her waist, pulling her closer, always closer. It's a kiss that's meant to devour and heal, and remind them of what they've been missing out on. He laughs against her lips and she pulls back slightly to do the same.

"I was hoping you'd come back to me," he whispers, his lips trailing over her lower lip and chin. She fists his shirt and feels the sting of oncoming tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she repeats, a kiss between each apology.

"Don't apologize, love," he says, kissing away her tears gently. "We're together now. That's all that matters."

She just nods before kissing him again, licking into his mouth, making up for lost time.

"Do you want to come in?" he asks when he pulls away for air.

She shakes her head. "Later. First, I want to take you to dinner."

"Dinner?" he repeats slowly. "Now?"

She chuckles. "Don't worry. We can pick this up afterwards," she says with a smirk.

God, how he's missed her. Her tears, the weight of her in his arms, the way she clings like the thought of letting go seems unfathomable.

They walk beneath the glow of the streetlights and the light of distant stars overhead. Their hands are entwined tightly between their bodies. Occasionally he'll swing her around, recreating steps they've danced many times at parties and weddings and in the comfort of their living room. And she'll steal kisses whenever she can, some small and fleeting, and others rawer, more desperate, but equally loving.

They're both stronger than when they walked these streets together before tragedy struck. The wreckage is behind them, and in the shade the world takes on when night approaches, what lies ahead seems only bright and endless.


	12. Epilogue

_30 years later_

They are sitting on the porch, basking in the warm evening breeze of oncoming summer. Their fingers are laced together, each adorning their own gold ring. The salmon coloured paint on the house has faded over the years, and the varnish has been worn away in some spots on the floor of the kitchen. The walls are adorned with more framed photos, and every nook and cranny contains memories they both remember.

They eventually remarried, and it was a day they both cherish dearly, most of all Belle.

They've gotten drunk on cheap champagne on several occasions, one bottle for each book Belle got published.

They've seen Paris and Rome and how shit the weather can get in the English countryside during the winter.

They've had fights, shared kisses that made their toes curl, and whispered filthy declarations of devotion more times than they can count.

They've survived two miscarriages and were blessed one healthy baby boy, Bae, who wore them out and brought more joy into their lives than they could've possibly imagined. They've sat through piano recitals and kissed the hurt of bruises away. They've watched him blush before his first date. They've watched him graduate. They've watched his car pull out of the driveway, packed with moving boxes and an acceptance letter to Stanford. They've nursed his heartaches and watched him fall for someone who brings out the best in him. They've watched him start a family of his own.

Sometimes they wish he was still living with them, and sometimes they're glad to have the place to themselves.

They have no regrets; nothing they wished would've turned out differently.

Well, except…

Belle never regained her memories.

Some nights she'd wake up from dreams that felt so familiar and vivid that she was certain it was her memories returning to her. She'd ask Rum whether what she'd dreamt had actually happened. And it broke his heart to tell her that it hadn't.

But he'd made sure she had enough memories for several lifetimes.

Yet, sometimes she felt the need to say she was sorry, sorry for leaving him alone with the memories.

"I'm sorry I never remembered," she'd whisper.

He'd kiss her temple and whisper back, "It's alright, my love. I remember for the both of us."


End file.
